


Things We Don't Tell Humans

by SineadRivka



Category: Bayverse - Fandom, Beast Wars, Transformers G1, Transformers General
Genre: F/M, G1, Other, bayverse, world-building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:18:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 208,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SineadRivka/pseuds/SineadRivka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was a first for us Autobots; never before have we come in contact with a species like these humans, so eerily similar to our own race and twice as tenacious as Sparklings. The question was, how far can we trust the humans with our culture? Some things have translated between cultures without much effort. Other subjects, however ... (Gradual AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Introduction

_Author’s Note:_ _Many thanks to co-conspirator Dragony. She let me bounce ideas off of her cranium. Also many thanks to the people that have been helping me with ideas for this story._

**_Updated Author’s Note:_ ** _I suppose I should write down warnings and whatnot, now that I’ve written most of this story. So here goes:_

 **_Fic Warnings:_ ** _Mentions of: inferred abuse of various nature towards underage individuals, mentions of suicide and the reactions of those left behind after a suicide, underage drinking that is appropriate in context, general violence, suspense, inferred PnP/Sparksex in later chapters, discussions regarding gender identities of non-gendered autonomous robotic organisms, and character death. I do my best to keep everything T-rated, so there’s nothing graphic of the aforementioned warnings._

 **_Relationships:_ ** _So far, it’s Sam/Mikayla, and later on, Sam/Carly; Optimus/Elita; Ironhide/Chromia; Ratchet/Wheeljack; Jazz/Prowl; Megatron/Nightbird, Megatron/?; Springer/Arcee; Bumblebee/Barricade; Tom Banachek/OC . . . so far. That’s not including minor pairings or pairings between two OCs._

_That should about cover it._

 

.o.

 

Optimus gazed at the new arrivals, Bumblebee at his side and standing loosely, almost negligently. Ironhide was walking up to his other side to address the new mechs, an irritated growl at being pulled from practicing maneuvers with the NEST team escaping his vocoder. He took to the human soldiers, even went as far as saying that he enjoyed working with them. He took the time to genuinely get to know a handful of the men, working with them even if it was merely maintenance on weaponry or machinery.

Returning his attention to the group assembled before him, Optimus reviewed their names, functions, and basic temperament. Arcee could be trusted without question; she had been one of his personal aides in Iacon a lifetime ago, and had a steady head and hand when it came to handling delicate situations. Sideswipe was one of their best frontline warriors but also the traditional troublemaker, especially now that he didn’t have Sunstreaker right by his side to even out the playing field of practical jokes. But he had matured into becoming a practical mech and could be trusted, even if he was “a bit of a jock,” as Will Lennox had laughingly said during a private meeting. Skids and Mudflap were looking to be the most troublesome of this group, based off of their personalities and tenancies to be the obnoxious Younglings that were just _barely_ upgraded into their Adult frames. Prime could trust them to fight, but not with sensitive information. Those two were his primary concern. Jolt was no youngster, being older than Sideswipe, and was starting to explore the energy options that Earth had to offer with all the attitude of an elitist environmentalist.

The Autobots were outside of the stateside base proper, jamming all the signals around them for this particular talk before they returned to Diego Garcia. He had discussed the topic into the ground and through the core of this planet with his officers. And there was a consensus that there were most _definitely_ things that they were not going to disclose to the humans, for a vast variety of reasons. As he waited for Ironhide to settle, Optimus looked to Bumblebee. The mech, still mischievous, started the meeting over the private com-system. _:Alright, here’s the deal. The humans aren’t ready to hear about certain things not just about our technology, but also about our culture. This briefing is to inform you of the broad strokes of what you will_ not _be talking about aloud while around the humans. Ratchet is still compiling his list, so expect to hear from him before the end of next week. For the moment, don’t tell the humans_ anything _about how our frames, processors, or Sparks work.:_

“Dude, yanno, they’re holdin’ up a disruptance field-thing . . . ya can _talk aloud_ ,” Skids replied cockily, making sure that he was being a pain in the aft. _Any_ sort of attention was attention.

 _:No, actually, I can’t. My vocal communications array was quite literally ripped out of my throat by Megatron before you enlisted. Yes. I am privy to both the civilian and military personnel files.:_ Bumblebee was slightly pleased at seeing the shudder of horror passing over the vocal young Adult’s frame at the idea of losing one’s voice. However, he also knew that the twins had made the connection of “I know what you’ve done,” and “I know you’re younger than you claim” with his mention of files.

“Are you an actual officer, then?” Sideswipe asked _almost_ belligerently, but there was a respectful gleam in his optics that hadn’t been there this morning. Optimus _almost_ smiled at that. Sideswipe knew that Bee could hold his own in a prank-war, whether they were teamed up or on opposite sides. Growing up together helped with that camaraderie. Sideswipe’s respect could obviously be transferred from “partner-in-crime” to “officer.”

“In the absence of Blaster and Jazz, he is our communications officer as well as the xenocultural specialist in regards to human behavior and psychology. Ironhide, as you know, is our weapons specialist and acting second in command until Prowl can be located. He is working directly with the NEST team to continue training them how to respond to Cybertronian threats.” Optimus stood tall, optics solemn. “Our other officer is Ratchet, as I’m sure you have surmised. He is continuing to fill the role as Chief Medical Officer.”

“Aw, _man_ ,” Mudflap groaned, head sinking down between his massive shoulders, looking very much like a petrorabbit cornered by several turbofoxes and realizing that there was no way out.

Sideswipe looked down at the twin before snorting and asking, “Did something that you’re going to regret?” His face turned to one of blank resignation. “Join the club. I haven’t seen Ratch yet, but he’s probably going to have my aft after the last prank I pulled on him.”

“Your physical exams will be directly after this meeting, in order of importance,” the red and blue leader interrupted, “but that is _not_ the full extent of this debriefing.”

Ironhide settled on the ground to replace one of the wires on his cannons, able to do it one-handed after eons of practice. “I have a training session with Lennox and Epps in a half-hour, Prime. I do not wish to be late.”

“Understood. First on the list of things is that our weaponry and our weapons technology is _not_ for human use. For all their merits, they are too war-like. The technology is classified. If there is a leak of information, there will be serious and undesired repercussions.”

“Gee. _That’s_ not familiar.”

Sideswipe reached over and batted at Skid’s helm. “Sorry, Prime. Punks still need some coding implemented for their respect modules.”

Making a wry face and sighing, Optimus continued. “I will not knowingly give them technology that will only continue further conflict among their nations. Nor will I tolerate any instances of tech willingly being given out under the table for them to research. Must I go into any more detail of why I feel this strongly?”

“What happens if they’ve already got their hands on some tech?” Arcee asked from her pink unit while blue and purple crouched on either side, keeping optics on all angles. “And they’re trying to emulate it?”

“They have already done so, using Megatron. That is why their technology is so far advanced at this time. They have reverse-engineered microchips, microprocessors, and basic graphic display interfaces from his frame.”

“Well, slag. So their tech is evil?” Mudflap asked.

“Good Primus, mechling, will you just _pay attention_ ,” Ironhide snarled, resisting the urge to introduce his face to his palm. “No, their tech isn’t evil! It’s just been force-grown.”

“Like a new hybrid plant in a greenhouse,” Jolt said suddenly.

The group paused as they all accessed the internet to find that reference. Bumblebee blinked, then nodded. _:Essentially, yes. Because of the many technological advances, they have not always been able to psychologically handle the repercussions of what their technology means. They remain aggressive and competitive on the whole over_ weaponry _technology in particular. If it’s effective, they want it. If it makes a bigger explosion than what their own country is capable of, they want to emulate it and_ then _make it bigger than their enemy.:_

“Da’s _stupid_ ,” Skids muttered.

_:It’s how the humans are. They’re always in competition, whether it’s for technology or a mate. Which brings us to the next point. Prime?:_

Taking the baton, Optimus suppressed a sigh before leveling his Serious Business face to those gathered before him, and let loose with his patented Serious Dressing-Down Voice. “Do _not_ let them know about interfacing. Ever.”

This time, it was Sideswipe who blinked. “Okay, Prime, I’ll bite. _Why_?”

Ironhide snickered, answering instead of their leader. “First off, they do not understand that we are truly an asexual species.”

“If we’re not supposed to talk with them about our forms of intimacy, _how_ do you know that, ’Hide?” the tri-bodied scout asked curiously, heads tilting to one side in unison, looking very much like a litter of puppies examining something new.

He shrugged massive shoulders. “Lennox is sworn to absolute secrecy. Since he’s my partner in leading NEST ground response on missions, I have permission to talk with him about certain sensitive subjects. He knows better than to tell anyone else. He was shocked that we don’t have definite physical genders.”

“So . . . how do _they_ deal with intimacy?”

“Bee?” Optimus asked with a light gesture of his hand. The yellow mech forwarded a file to each of the newcomers upon the prompting. It held files regarding reproduction and intimacy of the humans, everything from the plain-Jane vanilla baby-making to some rather lewd practices among those who were considered “practiced in the arts.”

Sideswipe made a gagging noise before shuddering. “Eewww! Ugh, that’s messy! How are they able to ever keep _clean_ if they’re all but—”

“Da’s nasty.”

“Yeah, bro. Ew. Humans actually do this for interfacing? Gross!”

Optimus and his officers continued to watch their reactions without reactions. Bee continued to tape this for the next batch of Autobots that were inevitably going to touch down. Jolt shuddered and twitched. “Can I delete this file from my memory cache? Please?”

“. . . I think I’ll do the same,” Arcee added. “Human intimacy is just . . . chaotic. Messy. Unfortunate. How many more negative things can I say about it?”

 _:Primus, yes, delete your cache if you’re that bothered by it. Just so long as you understand the mechanics of it and how it differs from our own forms of intimacy.:_ Bumblebee replied. He crossed arms over his chest and watched the young twins before looking to Sideswipe. _:As for the reasons behind the actual physical forms of intimacy, I want you to understand that our two species are much more alike than the humans realize.:_

Jolt shook his head. “Yeah, I can get that. So they have a very cut-and-dry way of telling genders?”

Ironhide grumbled under his breath. “Bee, you understand humans better than I can.”

_:Physically, yes, you can tell with a simple surface-scan what gender a human is. But they also can mentally identify better with the opposite gender, complete with desires towards their own gender.:_

“But that negates their ability to procreate. They’re a biological race, and procreation cannot happen outside of a body. They don’t have that technology, and from what I can tell, won’t have that tech for another three hundred years, minimum.”

 _:It’s not always about procreation. Like our race, it can be based solely upon love and attraction. But that’s a discussion upon culture that I want to have with you later, after you’ve had a lot more interaction with humans and with getting to understand what is and is not socially acceptable through trial and error.:_ Bumblebee’s optics seemed to quirk up in a smile, albeit not a very nice one.

Sending a tightly-encrypted com to Bumblebee regarding his amusement on this matter, Prime picked up the thread of the briefing. “Their sexuality is a rather large and confusing issue, I’ll admit. The point is, I do _not_ want you to start ‘comparing experiences’ with humans. And if I have to have Ratchet write in restrictive coding to enforce my order, I will. This is not up for discussion. Do you all understand?”

A chorus of affirmatives replied, and he looked at each mech in the optics, including all three of Arcee’s units. “Very well. Moving onto the final topic not to discuss with humans: religion.”

“Ooohkay?” Sideswipe asked.

 _:Just ping ‘world religions’ at a web search,:_ Bee replied with a definite chuckle and amusement in the silently-transmitted tone.

Skids and Mudflap went quite still before looking to each other and shrugging. “Too much readin’. No thanks, man.”

“Fascinating.”

The young twins looked to Arcee Purple, who was processing the information while Pink remained with her optics upon Prime and Blue spoke. “They still war over different faith systems.”

“Precisely. I will not cause more strife by letting them begin to assume _anything_ about our own faith system, thus turn others away from us merely upon the basis that we do not fit into their doctrine or theology.”

Jolt looked up sharply. “So you’re essentially neutering us in their views, turning us from true autonomous beings into _robots_.” He spat the word out as if it was a curse.

“It is a strategy that will make it easier with the humans to cooperate with us, Jolt,” Optimus replied, his tone gentle. “I, as much as any of you, understand that we are anything _but_ what we are presenting to the humans. At some point in the future, perhaps we _may_ be able to tell them more about ourselves without worrying about what they will think about our forms of affection and faith. Those issues are fiercely contested between various groups, even on base!” Shaking his head, the leader continued. “There are regulations stating that one may not push personal beliefs upon another, but that doesn’t stop the conflict; from experience, I know that just delays the inevitable conversation or argument.”

 _:You mean like when you and Ironhide butt heads, or when Ironhide and Ratchet decide to jackhammer on each other’s sensors?:_ Bumblebee teased, just to give the new mechs some context of how explosive tempers could run with the humans.

Ironhide gave his grown Sparkling charge a glare. “You’re still small enough for me to swat, Youngling, officer or not. _And_ I out-rank you. Wanna play ’Con with the humans to rally against?”

_:No, thank you, sir, I’ll pass!:_

“Thought so. In any case,” Ironhide got to his feet with a groan, his old joints making him growl at the dirt buildup. He’d need to get a thorough cleaning soon with all the grime that built up from speeding over unpaved surfaces of this dirtball. He leveled his formidable glare at each new arrival. “Those are the rules, and we’ll be enforcing them.”

“Indeed,” Prime growl-intoned, his own serious expression more than enough to convince even the few-watts-less-than-bright twins to not break this rule. “Your duty roster will be posted as soon as the NEST training has been completed. Ironhide will be in charge of that. Bumblebee has a charge, and will be continuing guardianship over one Samuel James Witwicky, who goes by the name of Sam. I will give you the full briefing upon that tomorrow. Now. Go get some recharge. Twins, if I hear one word about unnecessary and unsanctioned brawling, there will be a punishment for it. All training fights will have Ironhide’s supervision and the humans know that, so don’t try to pass off petty tumbles under that banner. Sideswipe, Arcee, Jolt, I want you three to think about which of your secondary programming subroutines you wish to use while on Earth.”

“What, _we_ don’t get that option?” Skids asked, his tone obnoxious and brusque.

Prime ignored Sideswipe dope-slapping the twin. “You are both too young to have any secondary subroutines to implement, nor any training to continue. Therefore, you will continue your position as infantry until we have the leisure to help you find and develop other talents that you may use to continue a life outside of war.”

“Yeah, like _that’ll_  ever happen. War’ll never end,” Mudflap muttered remorsefully. Everyone ignored him.

“Dismissed. Bumblebee, a word before you go?”

_:Sure, boss.:_

The others cleared off, Ironhide and Sideswipe moving off together to talk battlefield strategies, Jolt and Arcee going off to find Ratchet and see if they could be of any help. The Chevy Twins tumbled off to finish exploring the base, knowing the hard way that if they tried to cross a runway without clearing it through the proper channels, they get in some serious slag. That had been the incident of second day after their landing.

Sighing, Optimus looked to his young officer. When the rumors of war had started and when the glatorial arenas had begun to breed more than just wanton violence, he hadn’t been that much older than the scout was now. It suddenly made him feel very, very old. “Bumblebee, you mentioned that Sam has started to become distant.”

 _:Yes.:_ Recycling the air through his vents and focusing on relaxing some of his hydraulics, Bumblebee looked up at his leader, then away, watching a historic-looking F-15 land. _:He hasn’t said much of anything for a reason why. However, I do feel that he’s starting to . . . regret being as involved with our kind:_

Frowning, Optimus motioned for Bumblebee to continue, turning to face him completely. His voice was uncharacteristically melancholy as he sympathized with the younger mech. “He’s starting to realize that he won’t have what humans call a ‘normal life,’ isn’t he?”

The yellow mech rested hands upon hips as he looked up at the commander he trusted to guide their race into peace. _:Indeed, sir. He . . . continues to enjoy Mikaela’s company, and he continues to try to live life normally. Sometimes, that means that I am not with him. I have been trying to convince him that it is not wise for him to be out of my scanner range, but as you know . . . young mechs like to escape their Caretakers.:_

Remembering far too many of _those_ moment when he had been a young Caretaker, Optimus grunted. “And your handicap isn’t helping much at all, is it, Bee?”

Optics quirking up in a smile at the nickname, Bumblebee nodded once as the smile turned sad. _:No, Optimus, it truly isn’t. I feel that he and I share similar mindsets on more than a few matters, but . . . I am not willing to part with information regarding the circumstances that cause me to feel the way I do about inadequacy, what Ratchet and Smokescrn define as a “true misunderstanding of self-worth,” as well as various other issues that come with having an overactive conscience.:_

Lip components quirking, Optimus turned to watch the base as it moved, busy and brisk military movements that spoke of the people. Before Megatron had betrayed them, Optimus remembered the way that the Guard and Militia had functioned. They were very similar to the human military bases. The Autobots had worked hard to become a cohesive military, and it was only with the help of former Guard and former Militia that Optimus Prime was able to spearhead their faction.

“I have a question to ask of you, old friend.” Optimus didn’t have to look to know that Bumblebee was looking at him curiously, his large optics speaking more than any communication could. After a pause to reanalyze his words and gather himself, he asked, “Do you feel that Sam is capable of being trusted to become a liaison? More than that, can he be trusted with _all_ the secrets of our people, so that he—”

 _:Prime, don’t get ahead of yourself,:_ Bumblebee interrupted, moving around the leader so that they were again face-to-face. _:Sam is still a boy. Still a child, even by his own people’s standards. He doesn’t have the maturity nor the capability of being mature enough yet to handle the idea of responsibility that comes of being a_ true _liaison to a completely alien government.:_

Prime nodded. He knew this. “Do you feel that within the next few years, he has the ability to mature into being the cultural interpreter that we will _need_?”

_:Given time, given more experience, yes. He has an open mind, overflowing compassion when need be, and the ability to not just understand the big picture, but to also be able to figure out how to affect it when he changes something in his personal sphere of influence.:_

“Which is why he has started to pull away from your friendship.”

Unable to choke back a whine, the closest that he had to a keen of Sparkfelt unhappiness, Bumblebee coughed with discomfort, embarrassed that Prime had hit the nail on the head, as the humans say.

“Awh, Bee. Forgive me.”

 _:You’re speaking the truth as you see it, Prime.:_ Rubbing at his throat, which looked fine, but quite obviously _wasn’t_ , Bee looked away. _:As much as I don’t like it, he is pulling away. He’s going to college in just over six months. Freshmen aren’t allowed cars, but I’ll be doing what I can to stay close to the campus. He won’t like me following him, but it is necessary.:_

Reaching a hand out and resting it on the yellow shoulder, Optimus smiled and turned them both back to the base, picking up the jamming device, deactivating and subspacing it in one fluid movement. “I remember watching you grow and mature.”

_:Running around Ironhide’s ankles as he drilled recruits into the Guard? Passing out while draped over your or Megatron’s shoulders during meetings? Making the old Megs laugh with my antics at trying to fight and be tougher than I had been?:_

__“Actually, I was recalling almost stepping on you. One of the countless times that you literally got yourself underfoot without anyone noticing.” Optimus chuckled, his Spark warmed at the fact that he wasn’t the only one who remembered the “old Megatron” with fondness. His brother . . . had . . . been a stern but loving and intelligent mech. Somewhere, and Optimus just couldn’t pin down when it had happened, he had traded his compassion for megalomania.

Shuffling a little, Bee shook his head before resuming the almost-stately pace he had picked up from Prime himself. He knew that Sam was watching them from the bleachers, instead of watching Ironhide drill the humans on maneuvers. He knew that human hearing couldn’t pick up on Prime’s words yet. _:You were young back then as well, sir, and often had your mind occupied with running Cybertron and leading our people. And you were without the excuse of a militarized frame. Now? You’re a slaggin’ walking armory. It’s a wonder that Ironhide doesn’t just pick you up and aim_ you _instead of using his cannons!:_

He was genuinely pleased when Optimus threw his head back and laughed, pausing his steps to enjoy the mirth at the images that Bumblebee had sent with the com. Doorwings fluttering once in delight, the younger mech added, _:And Prime . . . I know that Younglings strive to become independent of their caretakers at a certain age. I_ know _that it’s going to hurt. But just like I stopped rebelling against Ironhide . . . and you . . . before the war began for me, I know that Sam will come to realize that it’s useless to rebel against what he_ knows _is his duty,_ his _responsibility, what part that he has to play in this Primus-forsaken war.:_

Gently clapping his hand against the young officer’s shoulder in affirmation of that fact, Prime straightened, feeling better than he had in a long while, walking into earshot of the humans, teasing lightly. “Are you vying to take up Jazz’s official capacity as morale officer as well? Or will I have to assign that to another mech?”

 _:Oh, I believe that Ratchet would enjoy being morale officer.:_ Looking to Ironhide, Bee tilted his head mischievously. _:What do you think, ’Hide?:_

He knew that the humans would think that he was suggesting Ironhide as morale officer, and Optimus anticipated this as well because he barked a laugh. “Ratchet would have my aft on a silver platter if I suggested that he become morale officer.”

 _:Oh, after a month or three. At first, you know that he’d take a certain sadistic glee in this.:_ Bee gesticulated along with his words as a human would. Doorwings hitching up in a particularly troublemaking way, he added, _:And Ironhide could be his second. Both love to torment and torture recruits with scathing bedside manners.:_

“Now you listen, you slag-processored glitch-heap!” Ironhide growled, taking a few steps towards the sun-bright mech.

“Bee? Are you . . . _talking_ to them?” Sam’s voice cut through the playful argument that was starting to heat up between the old caretaker and his former charge. The high school boy was watching their body language intensely, not knowing that Prime was watching _him_ , judging his character silently.

Bumblebee blinked and nodded, looking to Ironhide to explain. The black weapons specialist turned to look down at the boy. He knew all the terminology that had to go with Bee’s unique problem, which came from the old Caretaker programming that the older mechs had installed before the war was even a twinkle in a terrorist’s optic: Know what is wrong with your charge, and help them overcome it. Jazz, being musical and always on the cutting-edge of culture, had been a great help and mentor to Bumblebee in those first few months.

“Only his audible vocal communication array was destroyed. The sub-frequency personal communication, what we call ‘coms,’ is located in a different place for just this sort of problem.” He looked to Bee, then to Prime, for permission to educate the humans on a little more of their culture . . . something just behavioral, nothing too deep. Getting the go-ahead, he continued on with the small lesson. “We . . . go a little crazy if we’re unable to communicate. Everything about our culture revolves around communication, and being able to articulate ourselves. If Bee didn’t have the ability to articulate himself, whether through alt-mode speakers or through the com, I doubt that he would be here today. He’s resourceful, that little slagger, and always has been. It’s no wonder that he and the twins paired up to prank the base so often.”

“Prank, like, practical jokes?” Lennox asked. “Wait. _Those_ twins?”

“Slag, no, they’re not smart enough! Sideswipe and his brother Sunstreaker are twins. They accomplished anything you can think of, from tasteless to elaborate.”

“And gluing a certain second-in-command to the ceiling,” Prime rumbled, resting his hands upon his hips.

“It wasn’t me!” Bart Simpson’s classic voice said through Bee’s radio as the scout ducked behind the bleachers. He pointed towards the hangar where Ratchet was chewing out Sideswipe in Cybertronian.

“Twins and Bluestreak?” Ironhide asked, using the Cybertonian version of the sniper’s name. “Huh. Makes sense. Jazz probably was in on that, too.”

Bee nodded enthusiastically before looking to his charge. “Time to wander home, partner,” an old Western voice drawled.

“Awesome. You’re bringing me home early because I have school on Monday.”

“Homework, homework, homework!” was the chirpy reply.

“Calculus sucks, Bee—”

Cutting him off with a wave, Bumblebee searched through the internet for the right quote before replying, “If you wanted help, all you had to do is ask.”

“You’re kidding. You mean I could have been asking you for help on my idiotic homework all along?”

“The price is riiiigghtt!”

Sam dissolved into cursing as he walked down off of the bleachers, much to the amusement of the soldiers and the other Autobots. “I guess I’m off. See you later, Optimus, Ironhide.”

“Safe travels, Sam,” the deep and calm voice of the Prime replied. “If you do need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Nmph. Except for homework. I have other slag to do than tutor children,” Ironhide grumbled before barking to the NEST soldiers, “What the frag do you think you’re doing, standing around? What if a ’Con pranced his way up from _that_ direction? I was the only one keeping watch on that position! You slagheads think that I can cover your squishy skidplates _all_ the time? No! Get a move-on!”

Sam chuckled as the men didn’t even seem to mind the verbal abuse while they returned to the drills. He waved to Lennox as he sat behind the Camaro’s wheel, feeling safer inside the Autobot then he did while Ironhide was lobbing flash-bangs around to desensitize the troops to what would eventually be vital circuitry being destroyed. These fresh recruits, fresh being used in terms of ’bot contact as they were generally special ops soldiers, were learning to target, destroy, and move on. “Bee . . . was Ironhide always like this? You know . . . this tough on his troops?”

Laughing silently, the Camaro replied with an affirmative chirp that Sam had learned meant “yes.” There were still some tones that he could produce, and he had worked with Sam over the last year and a half to cultivate the communication patterns between them.

“So he’s always been like how he is now?”

Rolling up to the checkpoint, Bee flashed his ID on the military computers on the stateside base before pulling out onto the main road. He flashed a text-message to Sam. _No. He was always stern, but not quite as hardened. Hands off the wheel. I’m driving._

Frowning at the “snippy” words, Sam muttered, “All right, all right. Geez, Bee, what’s the big deal?”

_Sorry. Text messages just don’t portray any tonal emotion. I meant to tease._

“Yeah, that kinda got lost in transation, buddy.”

_I’m aware. That’s why I don’t like using this form of communication that often, especially while in alt mode. I’m sorry, Sam._

“Naw, man, I mean, it’s cool. So . . . is this stop at Edwards on their way to or from a ’Con sighting?”

 _Wish I could tell ya, but it’s classified._ Bee played a portion of a satirical song about the government before clipping it off. _Things get messy if civilians know too much about what we’re doing._

This got under Sam’s skin, and he half-exploded in his frustration. “Hey, I _helped_ in the Mission City battle! Hell, I killed Megatron! And I’m not allowed to know anything about what my friends are doing while they’re going off into battle? If they’re even going to come back at _all_?”

Bumblebee knew his frustration, and he sighed, pulling off the highway, moving to where he knew that there was wilderness and the chance to express himself through body language and facial expression. He knew that Sam was frustrated because he wasn’t allowed to know things. Primus, _Bee_ remembered when he was a Youngling, able to understand that people sometimes didn’t come home after subduing riots and protests in Kaon, but not knowing _why_ they didn’t come back. Opening his door when they were at a deserted rest stop, he waited until Sam clambered out before transforming. On lighter days, he’d start transforming the moment that Sam had a foot on the ground, shuffling him out easily. Not today.

Pulling an iPad out from his subspace, glad that Ratchet had foisted it off on him when he had gone in for the impromptu wellness exam, he handed the carefully-wrapped item to Sam, sitting down casually on a boulder. Words raced across the screen in time with his facial expression. _Sam, there are things that are not safe for you to know right now. There are people that wish to kill you for the very reason why you wish to know what my commander and friends are doing. You killed Megatron. While he wasn’t a beloved leader, he was a good one, and kept many splinter factions that answered to the Decepticon banner under control._

“So they would kill me just out of spite?”

 _Some would, yes. Some knew Megatron from before the war, and would kill you out of respect for his memory._ Nodding empathetically through a pained expression, Bumblebee continued, expressive hands gesturing to the world around them. _This world is one of the most beautiful places in the universe, and one that I sincerely hope that we are allowed to continue to live upon. That means that I have to play by rules that require me to not tell you, a civilian, certain sensitive details. If you were taken from my charge and interrogated by the Decepticons, I would never forgive myself for failing you._ Pausing, he reached his finger out and rested it upon Sam’s shoulder. _You’re an amazing human, and I have to follow the rules so that I may continue to be your friend, and be by your side._

“Do I have any choice in this?” Sam asked, his voice low and pained. His gaze revealed that he didn’t want Bumblebee to stay, but that he was considering all the options.

_If you wanted me to leave . . . you would have another Autobot in my place, or you would be confined to a safe bunker where nobody could find you, with no contact to the outside world, guarded by humans. I believe that would throw a rather large wrench into the works for your desire to lead a normal life._

Bumblebee watched the expressions flit over the human’s face, able to register them all and quite aware that Sam himself probably wasn’t able to understand just how many conflicting emotions he was expressing.

_I do not wish to leave you, Sam._

Looking up at the Autobot, Sam wondered just what that meant. After a long pause, he asked that very question, and was _sure_ that he saw relief upon the grey face as a result. _Despite our different races, you are like a brother to me. And I wish to continue protecting you, because you’re the most interesting human that I have direct contact and access to._

“So sorta like I’m like the last person on earth, right? That sorta thing.”

_Not in the least. You’re valuable. Unique. Funny. Talented. And you aren’t afraid of us, and you hadn’t been afraid of me when we first truly met. So. Will you allow me to continue being your Guardian, Sam?_

Sam read the words on the screen three times over before he gave an answer. Looking up, deep brown eyes dark with worry and emotion, the young man nodded. He didn’t say anything else, but he knew that it must be killing Bee to not be with his comrades right now, tracking and ambushing the Decepticons. But he nodded anyway and said, “Yeah.”

Optics quirking up in a smile, the yellow scout leaned in and rested his hand along Sam’s side, unable to write “thank you” upon the screen, only able to let his doorwings settle lower upon his back, and a relaxed expression to drift over his features. Transforming, he opened the door.

_Wanna drive?_

Sam grinned broadly and shoved the iPad into its carrying sachel, all but diving into the bucket seat. What hot-blooded teenage boy _wouldn’t_ want to drive the hottest car on the market? He hit the accelerator and shot out into the night.


	2. Sparkling Arc 1: And What Of The Shard?

_**Author’s Note:** I didn’t expect this to really take off so well! Thank you for your reviews, and your watches! I’m sorry if there was any confusion._

.o.

Diego Garcia was boring as the hell, as the humans said. But that didn’t make much sense, considering that all humans considered the concept of hell to be quite interesting, if an unappealing and undesirable location to ultimately end up in. Perhaps it would be safer to say that the spit of land that they were stationed upon was as boring as their daytime television programming. Drama, drama, _drama_ , with a side of angst.

Ratchet deadpanned at the holographic readout in Cybertronian at his shoulder-level. He began to interact with it, his fingers gripping the solidified light and moving the representations of mechanical parts around, experimenting and watching the results change in a separate holographic window hanging at head-height. Three or four times he did this, a secondary optic upon the door behind him in case a human decided to walk in on his research time. Air gusting through his vents in frustration, he growled and reset the holographic imagery of Bumblebee’s vocoder, starting from scratch as he tried to find human components that would be compatible with Cybertronian tech.

A shadow fell over the doorway, but it belonged to something larger than a human. “Sideswipe, in or out.”

As a result, the silver mech skated smoothly in. “In. What’re ya working on?” He peered up at the readouts on the holographic display, which was powered by an array on Ratchet’s shoulder.

“Bee’s voice. I still can’t find a repair method that will last more than six months to a year.” He returned to trying to troubleshoot different possibilities, then sighed and stared at the projection before turning the hardlight hologram around to approach from a different angle. “And the fraggin’ human-made tech keeps shorting out when I run it through different simulations. We have no spare parts when it comes to specialized parts, and we’re too far away from the closest base to have any shipped here within a reasonable amount of time.”

“What’s a reasonable amount of time?”

“Try almost five years.”

“What? That’s slag! Bee’s a _lieutenant_. I’ll talk to Sunny and see what they have on their ship. He’s off-duty and _bored_ on the ship, which is just about a year away.”

“It’s _not_ a vital part when it comes to communication between Autobots, and you know that, but it’s proving to be a problem when it comes to communication between him and the humans.”

Watching the deft hands moving quickly over the different shining components, Sideswipe remembered any number of times that he had been saved by quick thinking, obscene luck, and Ratchet’s natural skill. It wasn’t often that he was allowed in to watch Ratchet going over a medical problem and lives _weren’t_ at stake. Usually the mech was so grouchy because of the problem that he reached for a wrench to clock someone with _first_ and asked questions _later_. Settling himself against a workbench to mutely follow Ratchet’s movements with his optics, he finally blurted, “What about Jazz’s vocalizer? I know that his frame is hidden somewhere. I still get location pings off of his CPU from time to time.”

Glancing up at the mech before growling wordlessly, he formed the two models with specs listed in Cybertronian beside each. He showed what could have taken hours to explain in seconds. The size differences were the main problem, but in that Jazz had once been able to afford the best modulator for music and singing, he had also upgraded his electrical system so that he had the sheer power to reach beyond audible hearing on both the high and low registers, which otherwise, would have shorted out his voice, possibly for days. After a long moment, Ratchet murmured, “I have the ability to transplant it, and moreover, I have the parts to upgrade Bee’s systems to adapt the part. But he didn’t want to take anything from Jazz’s frame.”

“Sentimentality?”

“Would you want something of his?” Ratchet countered.

Making a face and shaking his head, the twin sagged. “No. No, I wouldn’t.”

“And why is that?”

“Because it was _his voice_.”

“Sentimentality?”

“Frag you, Hatchet.”

“Henh. Sorry, but I’m not interested anyway, kid. And besides which, what would Sunstreaker and Bluestreak say when they found out?” Shutting the holographic imagery down and saving his progress in a text file for later rumination at the ping of a human upon his sonar, he walked towards the door, trusting Sideswipe not to say anything about fragging while humans were around. “Epps. What brings you here?”

“Major Lennox wants to know if you can help us with one of the trucks.”

“Any of the Autobots are able to take care of that. I don’t see why _I_ would be requested.” Crouching down so that he was closer to the human’s height, he continued. “Unless it has to do with prying ears.”

“I’m sorry to say, but the boss doesn’t know Sideswipe that well.” Shrugging, the techie rested his hands on his hips, staring up at the large metal beings. Not for the first time, he wondered _who_ had made them.

“Sideswipe can be trusted to keep it muted, but I wouldn’t trust him not to prank you little slaggers,” Ratchet replied, giving the silver mech a darkly amused look.

“But Ironhide looked _great_ in neon pink!”

Epps’s dark eyes widened as he stared up at the mech in shock. “ _You_ pranked _Ironhide _?! Ratchet, tell me he’s glitched.”__

“Pranked the walking cannon and lived? Yeah. He can’t catch me.” Grinning at the human, crouching down to his level and recognizing the man as a fellow warrior, Sideswipe added, “But it was _always_ more satisfying to prank Jazz or Prowl. Or Ratchet. And yes. I’m vaguely glitched, but only in the ways that make me interesting.”

“I’d almost forgotten about owing you something. Thank you for reminding me,” the medic snarked.

“Prowl?” Epps didn’t know that name, and he picked up on it immediately.

“Brilliant tactician, and one of the officers,” Ratchet supplied as he walked a pace closer to the warm sunlight. “Extremely gifted, even by _our_ standards of processing power and intelligence. He was notorious for avoiding pranks. The only three mechs who could pull it off were the Twins and Jazz.”

“By ‘twins,’ he means me and Sunstreaker.”

Epps was rolling things around in his head. “You have siblings, huh? And from what I gathered, the AllSpark was your source of life. It meant the life of your species.”

_Oh, I do **not** want to be having this conversation with a human. _Ratchet kept an expression of curiosity on his face, regarding Epp’s words and what he might mean by them by sheer willpower alone.

“So is it safe to say that you have more than just sibling relationships? More like family relationships in the way that humans can have? Because I _saw_ what they did in Hoover Dam . . .”

“What they did in Hoover Dam?”

“They channeled the AllSpark energy, hit a cell phone with it, and _bam_ , Instant Robot. Pissy little instant robot. Simmons, uh, put it . . . down . . .” Epps knew the signs of an infuriated mech, and having worked with Ratchet and Ironhide extensively in the last several months, he _knew_ that what he had just said meant that if someone _didn’t_ die, it would take a miracle. “Shit, man, am I right in thinking that . . . _that_ was a child?”

Transforming with swift motions and opening his passenger door, Ratchet snarled, “In. Now.”

Looking up at Sideswipe, who was backing away slowly, carefully, trying _not_ to capture Ratchet’s attention, Bobby Epps said, “Can I drive my own vehicle?”

“No. You won’t keep up. In. I won’t hurt you. I am just very. Very. Pissed.”

By the time they were with Optimus and Lennox, Ironhide had been summoned, and he was pulling up behind Ratchet. Letting Epps out and transforming, Ratchet nodded to Optimus, who activated a dampening field. “Epps, I understand that you were not originally asked to join this meeting. However. Ratchet transmitted your conversation to me. We were not able to recover all the files and security footage from Sector Seven before it was disbanded and the computers wiped, or claimed to have been wiped. What you spoke of . . .”

And then the one living Prime’s vocoder cut out before he could keen in Spark-deep pain. Ratchet continued, knowing that Ironhide wouldn’t be able to continue this point. “What Optimus is having difficulty saying, is that room that you spoke of, Epps . . . what the Cube did? The cube would infuse our frames with a Spark, our life-force, equivalent to a soul in human terms.”

“Oh _shit_ ,” Lennox whispered, fumbling behind him for the boulder he knew was there. Lowering himself to sit down, he hissed, “Those . . . that little Nokia . . . that was a _child_?”

Optimus, still unable to trust his voice, merely nodded once. But even that motion seemed to convey the deep pain and sense of loss that he felt. Ironhide’s canons were whirling and clicking rapidly in a system check, much like a human would check his own weapon before going into a battle. “They were killing _our children_.”

“Wait. _Wait_. You guys don’t have genders, though!” Lennox said, still processing this new level of horror of what S-7 was doing to Cybertronians.

“They don’t?” Epps asked, looking up at the aliens in shock.

“Anything that we’re discussing now regarding our biology, you _will_ keep a lid on,” Ratchet snarled. “I still don’t trust the majority of your kind to not use the intel against us.”

“Yessir. But . . you don’t have _genders_?”

“Primus save us,” Ironhide muttered irritably. “I have to have this conversation _again_? _No_ , we _don’t_ have specific genders when it comes to our frames.” Sighing, he growled, “We don’t reproduce the way that humans do, so we don’t need the gender-specific reproductive roles in our society. We have frame-types, we have Spark-genders that are really coding categories, but we don’t have dangly bits!”

“If we can return to the subject at hand?” the CMO snarled, pacing with agitation, his heavy frame sending slight tremors through the ground. Epps realized that despite their size differences, Optimus, Ratchet, and Ironhide all had to be similar in weight, but for vastly different reasons. Optimus had his height, Ironhide had his weaponry, and Ratchet was a battlefield medic. But he seemed far too well-spoken and . . . aristocratic, even . . . to be “just a medic.” He found himself staring into piercing blue optics. “Why have you not brought this matter up before?”

“I hate to sound like a teenager in this response, but _nobody asked_. We thought that what we saw ‘come to life’ was a maniacal drone,” Lennox replied softly, pulling his legs up onto the rock and resting elbows upon bent knees. He rubbed his hands together before steepling them in front of his face while he thought. “We can tell you what we saw, but what _I’m_ now more concerned about is the missing Sector Seven files.”

“Mn. Banachek?” Ironhide asked, looking to Optimus.

“He was in the room with us and seemed to be part of the main heads of the bureau. Him and that weasel, Simmons.” The large black man folded large arms over his broad chest, bowing his head in thought. “I’d also suggest looking for Simmons. He dropped offa the radar last month, and we need to find him again. Shouldn’t take too long with the help of one of your kind. You make our firewalls look like playtoys.”

Prime had to let himself feel a bit of mirth at the man’s confession at their relative technological infancy. “Banachek first. He may have a lead; I will contact him privately. But first, your testimonies would be infinitely helpful.”

“I . . . don’t want to know how many of those . . . the . . .” Rubbing his face, Lennox sighed. “God _damn_ it . . . did they even _realize ___that they were murdering _children_?”

The pain in his voice seemed to calm the growing agitation of the three Autobots. Epps saw armor plating begin to settle back down from the aggressive “fluffing,” and the movements become more fluid and less battle-edge-like precise motions. He’d seen pissed ’bots, and he’d seen calm ’bots, but he’d never seen them go from pissed to calm so quickly because of a human’s reaction. Usually, it was the opposite reaction, especially when it came to the younger mechs. Bobby looked up at their faces, watching all three train their gaze upon the Major’s face, then spoke on what he figured was going through their minds.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and assume that you understand normal human psychology when it comes to our children.” He made his words blunt. “We’d die for them in a heartbeat.”

“It is another trait our species share,” Optimus murmured. Sighing, he let his mask of dignity slip and he settled himself upon the ground, sitting with an openly weary movement. “And I, for one, am relieved to see that trait. Not all humans share your sentiments. Major Lennox, I can see that through our cooperation, we _will_ find out why this all happened.”

“Know what makes this adding insult to injury, Prime?” Ironhide muttered, more for the impact it would have on the humans, giving them context for the Cybertronian fury. “We haven’t had Sparklings underfoot for almost a millennia, now.”

Epps found a place to sit down, and he found that he was followed in suit by Ratchet and their black weapons-specialist. His hands went up to cover his mouth, rubbing at his skin with worry. Finally letting his head rest in his hands, the Air Force man murmured, “If only we’d know what they were really doing, we could have saved the little guy.”

“No,” Ratchet said, his voice tired, “I don’t think you could have. Cybertronian children . . . When they’re created, or born, they can be quite defensive, trying to preserve their life-force and frame. They feel genuinely threatened when they come online, and for good reason.”

“They’re small, they don’t understand what’s going on around them,” Lennox hazarded a guess, looking from one Autobot to another. “They don’t know who to trust, or who is safe.”

The CMO nodded, his face grave. “That’s essentially it. However. You simply do not have the proper programming ability or language to communicate that they’re not going to be hurt. You don’t have the _size_ or even the physical language to convey _safety_ to their base coding. Primus. Maybe, if it was just you, and just them, in a room together for a few days on end, working on nonverbal communication, body language, _then_ perhaps it would lead to the child learning from you. Essentially, they would be raised with human culture, yet still retain Cybertronian instincts and psychology. It’d be an interesting study, had we the ability to reproduce again by the AllSpark.” He paused then added, “And not to mention that the humans would have to go through some rigorous training to understand just what they were getting into by adopting a Sparkling. Primus, though, imagine the waiting list they would have to wait through! They could be geriatric patients by the time the AllSpark was finished with granting Sparklings to petitioners!”

“Ratch. Back on topic. What, in essence, can we do from here?” Epps asked, looking for the practical application of this newfound knowledge. “Aside from knowing that if we talk about Autobot babies to any other squishies, you’ll flatten us.” He grinned wryly, knowing that he and Lennox already had a head full of Autobot secrets by this point. He knew their communication frequencies and technology, which had encryption keys and codes that couldn’t be cracked without knowing the written Cybertronian language.

That’s why they had Maggie and Glenn on permanent payroll, operating under aliases, in two different locations, each with a live-in bodyguard while under continual surveillance in case the ’Cons decided to take a whack at them. They’d cracked Cybertronian code before, and they were learning the proper coding from Bumblebee, through a form of distance-learning that was also encoded in such a fashion that they would have to break it in order to learn it.

The three Autobots looked to one another, clearly having a conversation among themselves to work on an answer for Epps. He and Lennox shared a glance, always amused at this behavior. When they had first met the Autobots, they wouldn’t even look at each other or gesturing when they were using silent coms. They had a good understanding of human reactions regarding talking about someone behind their back, and hadn’t wanted to offend anyone with the perceived insult. In that their culture was layer upon layer of communication behaviors, it was good to see that they felt comfortable enough with “their humans” to revert to their _own_ culture a little.

When Epps had asked about this behavior, Ratchet had told him that while yes, it was rude to be talking to more than one person at a time, it went without saying that if someone needed to have a private comment with another mech, they would simply pause the conversation, talk with the other person, then move back into the first conversation.

Which they were doing now. Prime addressed the situation. “We need to find Banachek first. I wish that we had _known_ the full extent of what they were doing in that dam!” In a rare show of anger, Optimus slammed his hand down on the ground, getting sand into the fine workings of the appendage while the other hand moved up to rub at his face and helm wearily, a motion he had picked up from the humans.

“That hand better be cleaned out by the time we do our next raid,” Ratchet snarked warningly at his commander. “And don’t come to me for help with it.”

“It will be cleaned,” the leader ground out, his patience unusually but understandably thin.

“I out-rank you if, and usually _when_ , there’s medical need, and sand in gears can build grime and rust! Then if you have to transform your hand into weaponry, what the slag do you think will happen if a gear pops out of place, hmm?”

“Wow. He reminds me of my mother-in-law,” Lennox quipped, grinning.

“I’ve been a caretaker more times than you have years, pup,” the yellow mech replied with a one-shouldered shrug while his optics remained trained upon Optimus. “Guilting Sparklings into behaving is second nature.”

“. . . did he just call Optimus a _Sparkling_?” Epps stared at the red and blue Autobot.

“Yes,” Optimus muttered grouchily. “And the sad part is that yes, both of them _are_ older than me, and they _have_ seen footage of me as a misbehaving Sparkling.”

“And as a fresh Prime, insecure in his position,” Ratchet grumbled.

Vents expelling hot air, Optimus muttered, “Primus forbid that they let me _forget_ that point, either!”

“We’re digressing,” Ironhide growled, standing with the whine of a bad hip. “I’m going to get back to trying to get Those Damn Twins into doing something other than bicker between themselves.”

“Sunstreaker sent his twin a location ping last night, through the usual methods. He and the ship they’re on should be here within the year, barring any Decepticon interference. They’re avoiding all the planets in this system as a precaution.” Ratchet sighed, moving his legs but not standing. “Got a message from the bratling just moments ago saying that they’ll be searching through their spare parts for something for Bumblebee.”

As Ironhide moved off, Lennox frowned suddenly, hit by a stray thought. He rubbed at his face, then looked at his hands, visibly inspecting them for cuts that he knew were there. Finally, he gazed up at the snarky medic. “Okay, so Sparklings, or life, pretty much came from the AllSpark, that cube, right?”

“Yes.”

“And from what I’ve been told by Ironhide is that you’re still getting readings that the shard still has some form of energy running through it.”

“Yes. What are you getting at, human? If you’re wondering if we’re going to online a Sparkling in this Primus-forsaken war, I will have you know—”

“ _Not_ a Sparkling. Your friend, Jazz.”

He felt both of the Autobots _and_ Epps staring at him in shock, and then came the flurry of motions of Optimus and Ratchet starting to talk between them. Holding his hand up, Lennox said, “Can I please be a part of that conversation? I want to know more than just a simple yes or no, since I _did_ bring up the topic.”

Sheepishly, Optimus replied, “Of course, Major Lennox. My apologies. I . . . forgot myself.”

“You’re allowed to, considering that out of the mouth of a relative _child_ came a theory that I haven’t yet explored. We _need_ Jazz, Optimus. Even if he’s immobile, we need his mind and his Spark. The troops . . . Pit take the irascible slaggers . . . they looked up to him and respected him. His death . . . I’m still getting reports in of the nose-dive morale took after his death was made public.”

“You’re a fine one to talk about being irascible, Medic,” Optimus grouched. “But ethically and medically, is it _right_ for us to bring him back to life?”

“You’re the Prime. You’re the one with the _Matrix_ , not me.” Ratchet used the Cybertronian word for the artifact, not wanting Optimus to have to explain to the humans just what their Matrix of Leadership actually _was_. “That’s _your_ call to find out the ethical side of our decisions. Medically? Yes, it’s right. If I had his Spark in a containment unit, I would be merely transferring it back to his body once the frame was returned to functioning order.”

Prime sighed, venting and cycling the air in his cooling system before he gave an answer. “I’ll need to think on this. Lennox, your intuition may prove to be one of our greatest assets. Just as with you, Epps, with your quick understanding of parts of our culture. Thank you, both of you, for your words today.”

“You mean the parts of your culture that you’ll let us see,” Epps clarified without even a hint of animosity. He smiled, shaking his head. “We have a meeting to hold with some of the newbies, Lennox.”

“Yeah, I didn’t want to think about that. Same questions every time. ‘They’re robots, how can they feel emotions?’ ‘Wait, so they can die?’ ‘Why do they need us?’ And my favorite, ‘Are you _sure_ that they’re not going to step on us?’ I swear, these kids need to really come to terms with the situation they damn well volunteered for.”

“Hey. Except that lady from the last bunch,” Epps clarified with a grin. “The sharpshooter? She scares _me_ with how fast she’s adapted to this whole ‘aliens among us’ shtick.”

“Always fear the so-called ‘weaker sex,’ Epps,” Ratchet intoned as he got to his feet. “Even _we_ hold to that! Femmes are _not_ to be trifled with!”

The two men stared up at the medic, who merely laughed and transformed. “I think Prime needs time to think. In, you two. I’ll bring you to where you need to be. And _don’t_ touch the steering wheel.”

“Decoration only, eh?”

“ _I_ control _my_ life, thank you very much!”

“Funny, I would have thought that you were the kind to _like_ being driven mad.”

“Oh, ha-ha. Remind me to run your foot over later ‘on accident,’ punk.”

Optimus watched as the trio continued to playfully banter and bicker while they rolled off, a small smile upon his face. Picking the jamming device up and walking in the opposite direction, he wound his way around the small atoll, walking the coastline towards the southern tip. Pausing to inspect an old World War Two plane that had been damaged beyond repair, the leader didn’t hurry as he started the process of relaxing and partially letting down his guard. He had no meetings until the morning, barring emergencies. If there _was_ an emergency, it would take him mere moments to return to the main hangar.

Continuing his walk, he thought upon the intuitive nature of the humans. The species was quite unlike Cybertronians in the way that their minds worked towards a solution of a problem. All of those from Cybertron, whether Autobot or Decepticon, worked in a relatively linear mental fashion. Point A led to Point B, which in turn lead to Point C. If there were options, the paths were straight lines. It was, in a sense, black and white. However, once you had more than one mech in the room, the lines could intersect, creating grey areas. It was through communication that grey areas were discussed. Thinking was virtually straightforward while one was alone. Problem-solving was much more complex when one became involved with friends and coworkers.

That was why communication was so important.

And underlying communication, actual contact with another intelligent mind was the main and absolute _must have_ in their culture.

Yet, humans worked with circular, non-linear ways of thinking. Granted, some humans had exceptional gifts in the fashion of mathematical or logical thinking, but not all of them possessed those levels of intellect. Most relied upon a complex amount of input being processed rather messily and haphazardly, coming to conclusions not because of if/then statements, but because of a seemingly instantaneous, clearly intuitive grasp of a situation. It almost enough to melt his processor with trying to figure out how they would come to the _same_ conclusion as an Autobot, but when asked how they had intuited the answer, it would actually take them time to figure out how to verbalize the paths that their thoughts had taken. In comparison, an Autobot would have done the opposite; they would have taken more time for thought, but could rattle out the process absently while working on the next problem.

Opposites, and yet, complementary. And even still, similar on a basis that almost alarmed Optimus. Especially when it came to the virtual hard-wired _need_ to be in contact and in communication with another sentient being.

Prime wasn’t going to debate any of those thoughts. He found himself staring down at a road block with one very startled soldier trying hard not to tremble as he craned his neck to stare up at the mech. “Am I allowed to pass, Private?” Beyond the road block was a restricted area to the humans. He would remain undisturbed while consulting his Matrix. Optimus, as the leader of the Autobots, practically a small nation, had the right to traverse along the entire island. But if the young man said that he couldn’t pass, he wouldn’t alarm the boy unnecessarily. There was another spot along the inward cove that would serve his purposes just as well.

“Uh . . . uh . . . !”

“Mm. Very well.” Turning around, he started back towards the other potential area, only to be stopped by the man’s shout.

“Sir! Y-you’re allowed to pass, sir! O-orders are—”

Chuckling, Optimus crouched slowly to come closer to the rather frightened young man. “At ease, Private. You are doing your duty well.”

“Th-thank you, sir!”

“Thank you for allowing me to pass. I will not be long.”

“Of course, sir!”

He had just stepped over the road block when he heard the timid voice pipe up again. “A-and sir?”

Turning, looking down at the rather amusing soldier, he inclined his head encouragingly. “Hm?”

“It’s an honor to meet you. Sir.”

Smiling, Optimus murmured, “Optimus, or Prime, if you must call me anything. You do not answer to my chain of command, Private. And it is . . . heart-warming that you are not as afraid of me as many others of your people happen to be.” With that, he turned around, and to the Private’s eyes, seemingly melted into the landscape with scary efficiency.

As he came upon a white-sanded beach, he felt himself settle. His Sparkpulse slowed, his mind stilled, and he . . . _was._

He was right in finding solitude. Settling down just under the cover of the trees, he found himself actually resting. It had been far too long since he had the chance to really be and not have to be running his battle computer, trying to mediate disagreements between his soldiers, and continue to learn and play the political games that the humans insisted upon.

With his stillness, with his peace, he found the wispy feeling of the Matrix activating. His frame shivered with the almost alien nature of the artifact. He may have been a leader for eons, but he had never gotten used to the feeling of how the Matrix would interface and sync with his cores when he had the chance and the ability to find time away from all distractions. It took longer now between battles and between meetings to find a time to, for lack of better verbiage, _commune_ with the Matrix, but when he had Prowl and Jazz . . .

_Jazz . . ._

He felt the memories from touchdown on Earth to Mission City be absorbed by the Matrix, sorted and analyzed. He always felt that even though he had lead a thousand battles, whenever he lost a comrade, he ultimately failed. By the time he failed Jazz, he was numb to the loss of Sparks he was _supposed_ to be protecting and continuing to guide. Bowing his head, he vented air and tagged the rest of his memories since Mission City for the Matrix to locate and copy into its own unique, ancient database that was more mystical than it was hard memory.

And he got a question from one long-ago Prime. _:Why do you feel you need Jazz back?:_

He took his time processing, knowing that this Prime was watching him think on the matter. When he came to his answer, he “spoke” back to the Matrix. _:It is not for troop numbers. It is for troop morale and for his unique view on the world and situations. Ratchet made a good senator, but he is best when healing mechs with his hands. Jazz, however, was perfect for public relations, and I am in need of his particular skills. Bumblebee, though enthusiastic, is still young and is currently on assignment. It is also for Prowl.:_

_:You have approximately a year before Prowl lands, Orion Pax, if all goes without interference. We know of his attachment to Jazz. Why, then, should you rush this decision?:_

_:I do not know if the opportunity for reviving Jazz will still be an option in the days to come. We are still hunting down Decepticons, dangerous ones that endanger human and Autobot lives.:_

_:Expediency.:_

_:In a sense.:_

There was silence for a long moment, and Prime found himself in the middle of a memory from another Prime, one who had this very decision pressed upon him. He chose not to revive the teammate. The battles with the aliens that their kind fought were harder-won, but they still won, and another mech had risen up to fulfill the role of advisor to the Prime.

Another memory, from another Prime, where the tactical officer was revived. This was from a different battle-front in the same war. The tactician, a mech of cold emotions and cold facts, had returned and performed admirably upon the battlefield, but was not entirely sane once peace was attained and he was forced to live a civilian life. This had been an age of miracles, before Optimus had been created as Orion Pax in the years that followed that particular war. The story ended in tragedy: the tactician had suicided at his home, his Youngling returning one day from Academy to find him no longer among the living.

The date on that particular memory was the vorn when Orion had celebrated entering his adult frame, and was beginning his work on the space docks as a common mech. He knew that date. He remembered the funeral for the Praxian mech. Primus! He knew the _Youngling_ of that mech!

Optics activating with a flash, the Autobot leader stood with his answer.


	3. Sparkling Arc 2: Sim Breaker

_**Author’s Note:** yadda yadda, I don’t own anything and I’m writing for fun and to explore what I have so far in my own personal fanverse._

_**Updated Author’s Note:** Rereading that last note and laughing. . . because what started as a personal fanverse has turned into a ’verse all of its own without me even realizing it. You know, 65-some-odd chapters later._

.o.

Banachek never expected to be in contact with the NBEs after Sector Seven was dissolved. He never expected that he would even be allowed within ten miles of them after what had happened in Hoover Dam and Mission City. There was far too much in the way of bad blood between S7 and the US military, despite all he had done to try to keep Sector Seven in a positive light, to weed out as many corrupted agents, scientists, and officials as he possibly could.

So when he left his too-big, empty house one morning on the way to his desk job in the Pentagon, he certainly didn’t expect to see a rather familiar Peterbilt idling curbside. Looking up and down the street, he didn’t see any other cars out of place, nothing loud and cutting-edge or concept. But that didn’t mean that he wasn’t being watched closely. And that didn’t mean that there weren’t military men watching his every move. Giving the NBE another glance, he shook his head and moved to get into his car.

The Peterbilt backed up smoothly, blocking the driveway.

Crap.

Sighing, he said softly, “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

His phone buzzed with a text message. _Those orders have been amended upon MY orders due to a sensitive subject. I need to speak with you, Banachek._

“With all due respect, I’m a bit wary of climbing into an NBE.”

_Noted. However, I am no Decepticon. I am not going to harm you. We need to talk._

“I can’t be late for work.”

The passenger door clicked open. _Your excuses are starting to wear my patience thin. This is not a request to speak with you. This is a demand and an order._

“And what will I tell my work?”

“That has been taken care of.”

Banachek stared at the human leaning over the passenger seat to talk to him. The voice was a deep, gravelly soldier’s voice, one that spoke of years of yelling on a battlefield. This vet was a good human liaison to the Autobot leader. Well, at least there was another human in the vehicle with him. Sighing, closing his own car door, he walked over to the NBE and hopped in. He wasn’t shocked when the door closed before he could reach out and grab it. “Taken care of?”

“You’ve been transferred into the civilian unit that has been created to help us,” the human said, turning to face the road again, one hand loosely upon the wheel as the rig shifted into gear and rolled down the street.

The former Sector Seven leader wondered at the comfort level between the human and the semi. The man didn’t even flinch when the truck took turns or shifted gears without notifying him. “Meaning?”

“Glen Whitmann and Maggie Madson, for example, have been and continue to learn Cybertronian communication code encryptions, and will be helping track Decepticon movements and cracking their codes.” The man gave Banachek an amused smile. “That boy whom you met with, the one with the Camaro? He is showing the aptitude for becoming a true liaison to our people.”

Banachek’s head snapped around to look at the human as the words “our people” really sunk in. “W-wait. That’s not a real human in the driver’s seat, is it.”

“I cannot allow myself to have a human friend and charge until this war is done. It would weigh all the more heavily upon my Spark if they were to be harmed, or worse, killed, while under my guardianship. Decepticons are not above holding a human as a hostage, dead or alive, as you saw last year.” The hologram continued to move as if it were a human, though, as if giving Banachek more of an understanding into the alien mind. Regret, pain, and determination flashed over the weathered visage, and the set shoulders twitched forward as if to hunch against a cruel, cutting winter wind. “Surely you can understand my stance.”

“Of course . . . it just startled me that you would actually think upon those levels.”

The usually-formal mech snorted irritably before glaring at the man. “Your species is young, and yet is strikingly similar to my own species in temperament, personalities, vices, fears, and emotions. I take those precautions because I have seen the same malicious behaviors in my culture’s history.”

The man mulled this over, staring out through the windshield as he processed the fact that he had been rebuked quite gently, as if he were still a child learning about the world. And yet, he _was_ still uneducated about those who flew between the stars. He knew from the code monkeys that had been under his command when Sector Seven had been running full-force, that NBE-1 was part of a thoroughly complex society. Their glyphic language was almost unbreakable . . . until . . .

“Mr. Banachek, I have come to speak with you about a grave matter that does indeed encompass a great deal of my Cybertronian culture. You are a man of secrets; I am hoping that you continue to consider secrecy a high priority of your life.” The hologram gave nothing away this time, leading the man to realize that he could very easily be lied to if led into a complacent and comfortable place. He’d already been fooled into thinking that the hologram was real, but could he be fooled into believing the body language of bent light? He waited to see if the alien would continue. He wasn’t disappointed. “But I will need you to verbally verify or sign a form in my glove box that you will not speak of what I’m going to inform you about.”

Taking a moment to think about the situation, and how to best phrase a vow, the man finally nodded. “I’ve studied your species for most of my life, and I’ve kept secrets of what I know about you for the same amount of time. I comply with your terms of secrecy, and will comply with any adjustments of the secrecy agreement if any are to come at any future date.”

Optimus wasted no time. “The AllSpark, as I’m sure you’re aware, is what kept my species and my planet alive. You knew that it would bring inanimate electronics to life, often with violent reactions from what digital documents we have been able to access.”

Frowning, remembering the way that they would often to terminate one of the drones, he asked, “They were feral. Why was that?”

“Sparklings do not understand their environment in those first few moments of life.”

Banachek began to feel a sinking, deadened feeling begin in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t like where he thought this conversation was going, and as a result, he could feel all the signs of classic stress begin to show; palms started to perspire, breathing and heart rates spiked, his adrenaline began to rush. If he had been staring up at the NBE, he wouldn’t have felt this panic begin to set in, but since he was essentially sitting _inside the alien_ , he had nowhere to go.

So he was trapped. And he was feeling like he was going to puke with stress. This was not how he had wanted to start his day.

“Sir, might I ask you . . . what are Sparklings?”

Noting the older man’s stress and keeping a careful watch upon his vital signs, Optimus replied softly, letting his holoform show the glacier-sized grief of his Spark through body language. He refused to sob his frustration to a human he barely knew. “Sparklings, Mr. Banachek, are our children. The AllSpark was the only way that we could procreate.”

“Oh my God. Oh my sweet God.” Resting his head in his hands, Banachek hissed, “They were your babies?”

“Yes.”

The man cursed, feeling sweating hands begin to shake. “But . . .”

“Mr. Banachek, you are showing acute signs of stress, and you are not a young man; please calm down. I have no wish for you to cause yourself harm through stress.”

“I’m sitting _in_ you, learning that I’ve been killing your species’ _babies_ and you’re telling me not to _stress_?”

He was truly shocked when the windows rolled down, letting fresh air into the cabin, the wind wrestling and winning with his hair. Prime slowed his speed and pulling into a secluded graveyard, opening his door once he had stopped. “We won’t be disturbed here.”

“How do I know that you’re not going to _off_ me for what I . . . I had sanctioned?!” But the man was quick to get out onto the grass, turning to watch the NBE transform and then crouch closer. Flinching, he watched the red and blue mech settle upon the grass, careful not to disturb graves or markers.

“Because all life is sacred.”

“Yet you kill your enemies!”

“An unfortunate necessity.” Optics focused with unearthly intensity upon the man. “ _Are_ you my enemy?”

“I don’t want to be, but I fear that I already made that decision long ago.”

“But do you wish to continue to be my enemy, the enemy of my people?”

Shoulders sagging, Banachek shook his head. “No. Not . . . not after I found out that not all of you are like NBE-One, whose mind—”

“You _hacked_ him?” Optimus leaned forward suddenly, shocked and curious. Humans had the mind and capability to hack into _Megatron_?!

“N-no, I mean, yes. I didn’t, personally, but I did give the order to try to see what was in his memory banks, to see if we could learn anything else about it— _him_. Him. And to see if we could advance our own technology any further than what we could understand from his frame.” He shuddered. “What I saw . . . the war . . . Lord, I saw your face so many times. Seen your injuries. Seen the torture and deaths of your . . . men?”

“My mechs.”

“How can you still be sane after what you’ve lived through?” The man rubbed at his face, fingers trembling.

“You have nightmares from what you saw?” The Prime asked, his voice soft with compassion.

Banachek nodded and found himself relaxing at the way that the leader was relating to him, treating him as an equal, if one still a touch younger than him. “I still have them.”

Wincing in sympathy, Optimus rested elbows upon his knees with a sigh. “That is a conversation for a later time. Right now, I wish to know one thing. Did you ever suspect that what you were onlining was a child?”

Blue eyes looking up at the leader, making contact with optics, the former Sector Seven leader shook his head slowly, his voice a rattled whisper. “Officially, no. We thought they were drones. Nothing more.” With a shudder, he whispered, “But personally, I have seen a few cases that always caused me to doubt those theories.”

“How many were . . . terminated.”

Finally able to give the Autobot news that would bring him some comfort, he replied, “Less than those who were onlined.”

“What happened to the ones who are living?”

Banachek finally felt brave enough to fully meet the Prime’s gaze . . . And he smiled.

.o.

“You’re _kidding_ me, right?” Major Lennox was currently sitting upon the top of a New York roof, watching some hole-in-the-wall meat shop. “You’re telling me that he’s in _there_?”

 _“According to satellite imagery and facial recognition programming that we parted with for you humans, yes, that’s where the slagger holed up.”_ Ironhide was not a happy mech this morning. He had been dragged out of a deep defrag cycle by Ratchet himself, which the military man knew, was not a happy experience. _“The brat has been on the go for a while, but he’s come home to roost with one of his creators.”_

“Parents, Ironhide.”

_“Whatever. The femme unit.”_

That got a grin from the humans who were roof-sitting with him, all of whom were in his unit, and were patched into the communications. “He’s living with his _mother_. Oh, this is choice. So. What does the Big Man want us to do about this?”

_“Got two options. Face twiddle-aft on his own turf, or send in special operations to find the information we need.”_

“We’d need to get warrants and all sorts of other idiotic paperwork before we sneak in there, otherwise it’s called ‘breaking and entering,’ ’Hide.”

_“Nnmph. Bothersome.”_

“You’re telling me.”

_“Optimus says to face him first and try to convince him to give you the information we need. While you’re doing that, he’ll get the paperwork in order.”_

“Glad to know that we’re all thinking the same way on this.” Stretching his arms, Will looked to Bobby. “Right. You wanna come with me?”

“Hell, no, man. I’m sitting my ass up here.”

“Wuss.”

“You seen that curly-haired freak? Yeah, no thanks. I don’t wanna deal with him again. Ever. Beyond eternity. He’s a pain in the ass.”

“I could make it an order.”

“You could also sign over your house, your truck, an’ your dog.”

“You can have the house and the truck. Truck’s a lemon, though.”

_“Well, frag you too, Will,”_ Ironhide snarked through the headsets.

Epps pointed to his commanding officer. “Dog too, or no deal.”

Grinning and edging his way back to the fire escape, Will grumbled, “No deal, man. Keep the backup hot and ready to roll.”

Arcee answered him. _“Already waiting around the corner. Sideswipe is with me.”_

“I like having the big guns on my side, you know that?” Lennox grinned and was upon the concrete sidewalk in a half-minute, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt while he strolled around to the deli, the mics hidden by the collar of his short-sleeved button-down shirt. Hair was messy, sneakers scuffed . . . it was like he was a normal American. 

Until he walked into the little shop while nobody else was in, save for their target.

“Seymour Simmons.”

“Don’t call me that. Only my mothuh calls me that an’ I don’ let anybody else call me that. It’s _Reggie_.” He didn’t even turn around. “Whaddya want?”

Will smirked. “I’m here for a chicken.”

“We don’ do chicken, sorry.”

“Naw, see, I’m calling _you_ a chicken. Turn around.” Hands in pockets, Lennox walked a step closer, but was wary of the fact that there were a _lot_ of knives around the shop.

Something in his voice must have tipped Simmons off, because the man’s back straightened and he glared over a shoulder. “Get out.”

“Can’t do that, sorry.” Even Lennox didn’t believe that he was sorry, based off of his own tone. “See, you were one of Sector Seven’s prime agents. You were dedicated, driven, and seemed to have some sort of reason, some belief to back that motivation up.”

“Well of course! I can’t just sit back and let the aliens take over! Earth is our home! They don’t belong here. Earth was created for humanity, or humanity created for Earth, depends on your view of things. But I wasn’t gonna just sit back and let them come and take over _our_ world.”

That didn’t sound either too logical or too fanatical . . . yet. Eyes narrowing, Will replied evenly, “Have you asked them if they wanted to _take over_ our world, or if they were just trying to _defend_ it from a common enemy?”

That got Lennox a glare, one that he only maintained a straight, stoic and almost deadpan-dull face to. Simmons slammed the knife he had in his hand home into the wooden block, stalking around the counter to get into Lennox’s face. “And you would _believe_ them?”

So the Major decided to push back, changing his body language to aggressive as he got into Simmons’ personal space. “I believe the ones who have personally saved my ass and who trust me to save theirs when they need it. And right now, _you_ have information that they need. Information about what you had been doing in Hoover Dam. This can be done the easy way, where you cooperate, or the hard way, where you lose everything. Again. Because it _can_ be done.”

“What if I tell you that I don’t have anything?”

“Judging by the residual radiation emanating from around this place, Ironhide and I are disinclined to believe that claim. You still have Frenzy’s head?”

The glare he received was enough of an answer.

“I don’t want his head. You can keep that trophy. What I want are files. Information. The records that are conspicuously missing from what Sec-Seven handed over to the US Military when it was dissolved.”

“I donno what you’re talkin’ ’bout.”

“You wanna keep lying to me? Fine. I can live with that.” He outright _loomed_ over the older man. “But can you live with angry frigging robots coming and demolishing your place just to get at a handful of paper stacks? Can you live with pissing your Mom off because this place has been razed to the ground? How about living with the fact that a few of the charges being weighed against you could be nullified with an act of goodwill?” Will paused for breath. “I could live with the last one, personally. But it’s your choice. Help us willingly and we start taking an eraser to your records. Don’t help, and we start digging and seeing what else you’ve been hiding.”

A minute passed while Lennox watched Simmons process the pros and cons of each decision. Finally, he growled out, “What do you want from my files?”

Now we were getting somewhere, but the military man didn’t give any outward sign of his satisfaction. “I can’t tell you what in particular.”

“That means that you’re taking everything.”

“No, it means that I want to go through a section of your files—”

“And take them.”

“No,” Lennox said slowly, as if talking to a particularly obstinate preteen boy. “Copy them and put them back. They wouldn’t even leave the premises. Consider yourself a library.”

There was a moment of grouchy half-assed glaring before the snippy reply. “Of course you have your alien buddies giving you better tech than the American public. How long will it take?”

“Depends upon your level of organization and how many people you’re willing to let dig through things. And we don’t need their tech to bring a portable sheet scanner and a laptop somewhere to scan documents.” Lennox paused, and then muttered, “Though, _technically_ , it is their tech. Sec-Seven just reverse-engineered it from Megatron, so . . .”

After another long moment, Simmons sighed and glared. “Fine. Three people, other than you. No more than that. I know you have backup. You military types don’t go _anywhere_ without backup.”

Of course Will had backup. Three Autobots and several humans, each packing enough to level the building if they were pissed enough. And that was just the humans. “You have a way from the outside to get in that isn’t through the meat shop?”

Simmons gave him a very odd look in response to that, to which Lennox replied, “I somehow don’t think that you want a my soldiers bringing dirt, engine oil, and all sorts of sidewalk contaminants through your meats. You do want to sell clean food, yes?”

“How do you know that it’s through the meats?”

“Blueprints. We do our research. C’mon, don’t piss around with me, Simmons.” Half-grinning and shrugging, he didn’t elaborate further. Telling Simmons that the building had been scanned this morning by three Autobot warriors wouldn’t win him any more favors. He also knew exactly where the entrance to the basement was located, but this was all part of the game.

“Mmhm. Not bad. I like a guy who knows to do homework before the big assignment. So when do you want to do this?”

“Now.”

“Right. Well. Lemme show you down, then. Hey Ma!” Turning and walking towards the office, Simmons got an earful from his mother after telling her that he was going out of the shop for a short while. Grumbling and stalking back out of the office sans hair net and apron, he muttered, “Never let your mother live with you, kid. Worst idea ever.”

Grunting noncommittally, Lennox followed Simmons around to the alleyway, not signaling to anyone he passed that they had gotten in. They, of course, already knew. He was wearing a body mic that transmitted his conversation to those waiting outside and it was being recorded by at least two people. So when they walked down the street, he recognized Arcee’s pink unit parked behind Sideswipe, the hologram activated and talking motorbikes with his own hologram, which was leaning against his rear quarter. They didn’t look at Lennox, and he didn’t look at them while they conversed. Less than a minute later, Simmons unlocked a padlocked door. “Where are your friends?”

Two geeks from NEST trotted up with equipment, followed by one of the Arcee units. She transformed and crouched, blue optics dangerously icy. She didn’t say a word, just stared at Simmons, who somehow had the gumption to try to ignore her glare as he let the humans in. Turning to Lennox, he thumbed over his shoulder. “I suppose that he’s going to be guarding the door?”

“She is going to be helping us inside,” Lennox replied with a grin, finally glad to have unsettled the fanatic. He was again quite thankful that the bots recorded all their missions and compiled them for further training with the humans. Sort of a “this is what we did, this is what we did right, this was what we did wrong, and this is how we can improve working together as a team.” So far, that teaching technique was showing out to be very, very helpful with all NEST members.

Another Arcee unit pulled up and parked, holoform dissolving. “And another part of me is going to be playing lookout.”

“Wait. Another part?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to _you_ ,” the femme hissed, rolling closer in a decidedly malevolent manner. “Move aside, fleshling. I have work to do.”

Shocked, Simmons did as he was told, watching as the small femme slid her way into the basement storage room. She glanced at Frenzy’s head for one long moment before maneuvering deftly around the table in the middle of the room, taking in the cluttered sight. Turning, looking to the NEST geeks, she nodded. “Let’s get to work.”

They moved through the files methodically, having done as much research as they could from the few physical files already available to them. Simmons had a particular filing system that worked for him, and he was already prepared to start chewing people out for pulling things out of order, but with the purple bike doing all the heavy lifting and able to move the stacks of paper around with great ease, he found himself standing back and watching. Incidentally, Lennox was beside him. In an undertone, Simmons asked, “So why aren’t _you_ doing the digging?”

Glancing at Simmons and letting a small, satisfied smile drift onto his face, Lennox replied, “A good leader knows how and when to employ those with greater talents.”

“So you figured that you could come in and intimidate me the best out of everyone?”

“Well, you already know that if I have a handgun to your chest, I’m always ready to pull the trigger.”

Wincing and shutting up, not wanting to remember his failure, Simmons watched the two humans moving with perfect unison with the Autobot. For every one file that they went through, she went through four. Every so often, one would pause and run a paper through a scanner, putting it back right where they found it before handing the file back to Arcee, who would replace it with careful exactness. When she paused over a paper, he figured that she was scanning and storing it. “So am I allowed to see what they’re scanning in?”

“Sorry, but the matter is classified.”

Grunting in irritation, Simmons move to stare at the map of the United States with pins still in it which showed confirmed sightings of the NBEs. He knew that to try to find out which individual pages they were copying would take months. Well, he had the time, but he didn’t have the brainpower to recall everything that they were doing. He knew the general locations of what subjects were where, as did any archivist, but the particulars . . .

Turning to watch the trio again, he asked, “So why the death glare from Miss Metal over there, hm? Did I do something particularly offensive?”

Lennox winced inwardly. _Oh, God, here we go._

“Do you really want the answer to that?” she replied without looking away from the file she was flitting through, careful of the fragility of the paper, but still moving swiftly. “We’re on orders to be on our best behavior, but those orders only extend so far. If you prove to be a nuisance . . .”

“No, really, I’m curious. I haven’t met you before. I don’t know you, you don’t know me, so why not a fresh start, eh? Make friends and all?” Simmons was smiling, trying to win her over. Lennox watched the behavior, trying to figure out just _why_ in _Hell_ this guy was now trying to chat up what he classified as an enemy to Earth.

She paused. That motion in itself had the humans stiffening and assessing the situation. Suddenly, Simmons wasn’t sure that it was a good idea to needle this newcomer. Her reply was distinctly cold and, well, alien, as she “stood” from her crouch and began moving closer to Simmons in a predatory fashion. “I will give you one reason why I _wish_ I could fling you from here into the Charles River in _Boston_ by hand if necessary. And after I give you that reason, you will discard any and all thoughts you may have about any further interaction between us. Or I will have you removed and this basement stripped to the dirt and bricks. I have that authority. Do you understand my terms?”

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

Arcee’s face was now within one foot of Simmons’. “You. Hurt. Bumblebee. It was on your orders that you froze his hydraulics and energon lines, and _your_ orders to perform tests upon him. _Your_ orders to try to hack into his processor, his memories. Not Banachek. I can live with Banachek. He’s a decent human being, as your kind say. But _you_ , you pond-scum-sucking plebian . . . _you_ I have no patience for, you selfish, _irreverent_ bratling. You would do well to say as little as possible until we are done here. Understand?”

Lennox had seen Arcee mad before. The Twins were idiots and generally unable to keep themselves from being stupid, which lead to some rather unfortunate problems when it came to the more mature of the Autobots. So he’d seen her flip her top from time to time with them. But this was a new sort of angry. This was scary. But it was scary in a way that reminded Lennox of something from his childhood. As Simmons subsided and settled himself upon a chair in a sulk, the Army Major mentally snapped his fingers in recognition and understanding.

_Arcee_ had just acted like a _mother_ scolding a child!

He’d heard of Caretakers, and he knew that Optimus and Ironhide had been Caretakers during their admittedly long lives, especially when it came to Bumblebee. In that Bee seemed to be one of the youngest, even though he showed a great maturity with how he was handled Earth cultures and other issues. Through each interaction that Will saw him, the Camaro gave all sorts of hints away regarding how he had been raised. His behaviors mimicked a younger, more playful Optimus, the combat mindset of Ironhide, and then there were the bits and pieces that remained a mystery. His linguistic nature, the undeniable _mischief_ that danced around his doorwings . . . the little bits of culture and physical mannerisms that weren’t from either large mech . . . they had to come from _somewhere_. Transformers were the ultimate mimics, so much so that it was sometimes hard to see the difference between their own cultural cues and the Americanization of their cues that they overlaid their body language and their speech patterns. In the back of his mind, he wondered just how many kids Arcee had raised, then dismissed it for later if it ever came up.

Technically, he wasn’t supposed to know that much about how Autobots made and raised babies, but Ironhide was being a great help with hearing out his troubles with having to live so far away from Sarah and Annabelle. They would exchange stories and discuss problems, trying to come to a solution.

For the next hour, Will contented himself with watching Arcee while keeping Simmons directly in his line of sight at all times. She was grumbling under her breath in her native tongue for a good amount of time, and Will heard the English replies of Sideswipe and Ironhide in his radio. He had pulled out of his collar and shoved into his ear after Simmons had finally shut up, not pretending about being a civilian anymore. The mechs commiserated with her, and finally, something one of them said got her to laugh in her own tongue, the ululating whistle sending gooseflesh racing up the arms of the humans. Within a half-minute of her laugh, she was relaxed again and continued on more efficiently.

Thirty minutes later, the trio pulled things together and nodded. They were done. While the humans filed out with their bags of technology, Arcee stared down at the head of Frenzy, hissing one long line of static before stalking out. Will knew a few select words in Cybertronix thanks to Ironhide, all of which were wildly improper and unpronounceable by the human larynx. He knew for a fact that Arcee cursed Frenzy’s parentage rather . . . inventively, before leaving the basement. Focusing his gaze upon Simmons, the man said one final set of words.

“We may return, if we can’t find answers that we need. And remember that if we are _ever_ refused entrance, I _will_ make sure that all your material here is returned to the proper places. _Us_ and _them_. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”

“Yeah,” came the sullen reply.

“I want eye contact and full verbal understanding of this matter, Simmons,” Will growled.

Glaring at the younger man, Simmons snarled in return, “I understand that you may return for further information and that if I refuse you, you will take it anyway. Legally.”

Nodding once, Lennox left without saying another word, swinging up into Ironhide once he was free of the alleyway. Sitting in the driver’s seat and crossing his arms over his chest, he looked to the two techies in the back seat. Both of them were pouring over what they had found, talking with Arcee over the coms and feeding her the information to process and continue working with. She had one unit secured in Ironhide’s bed, utilizing that processor specifically for compiling and organizing this information.

“So what’s the verdict?” he asked.

Ironhide made an uncertain sound. He didn’t want to know any more than necessary. He had already decimated half of the firing range once in his temper of knowing that their children had been murdered, and didn’t want to deal with any more grief. The only reason why half of the range remained standing was that Optimus and Ratchet had gotten him into a roiling argument that had the service dogs howling and whining with the pitch of their native speech. It had him distracted to the point where he finally spluttered, tried to get one last word in, and was tackled by none other than Ratchet himself. After gaining a few carefully-placed dents and his calm had returned with losing the tussle, he and Will had ended up sitting on the beach for hours after that incident, talking things out and working towards further stabilizing Ironhide’s emotions.

“Verdict,” Arcee replied, “is that we have fourteen Sparklings held by humans across the United States, sheltered with embedded Sector Seven agents who probably don’t even know that Sec-Seven is completely disbanded and reabsorbed into NEST. All we have to do is visually confirm this information.”

Growling, Ironhide hissed, “Oh, just _wait_ until Prime hears this.” He chuckled darkly. Everyone knew that Optimus would _not_ be happy with this development, but would also be ecstatic at knowing that a new generation had been birthed.


	4. Sparkling Arc 3: 'Round Midnight

Ratchet’s head didn’t even turn around as he threw a wrench, ricocheting it off of the wall and right into the helm of the idiot entering the makeshift medbay. The sudden noises and seeing movement ten feet above their heads caused humans to duck and yelp as it flipped end over end into a bin as a secondary ricochet. “Sit your aft down and out of the way unless you’re going to make yourself useful!”

“Ow, slaggit! I didn’t _do_ anything, Hatchet!”

“Not yet you haven’t, but the way that you’re walking indicates that you’re planning something!” He continued working with the component within his hands, watching humans walk up with his radar. “Go into that bin that the wrench went into, and you slaggin’ get me a smaller one.”

Cursing in Cybertronix, Sideswipe did as he was told while Lennox looked up at the hardened frontliner reduced to being a gofer. He had never been told why Sideswipe let himself be reduced from Glorious Frontline Soldier Extraordinaire to Hired Help, but he knew that there must be a reason for the way that he would submit to Ratchet’s orders without much of a fight. Wisely, he kept his mouth shut about the situation, instead asking, “Where’s Optimus?”

“Back room. I’ll ping him. Don’t go looking for him.”

Epps and Lennox shared a glance. Ratchet had been working on something nonstop over the last week and a half. He rarely stopped to rest, and even then, it was only at the nagging of Optimus or Ironhide that he could be moved away from his workbench. Moreover, he had been surprisingly tight-lipped about what he was doing. Usually, the NEST officers could sit in on what he was working on if it was basic repairs or field repairs, seeing what he was patching up so that if he wasn’t around and they had to patch a leak, they would be able to do so. Most Cybertronian fluids weren’t that harmful to humans. At least, not any more harmful than the common motor and machine fluids that humans would often use anyway.

Moments later, Optimus slipped out of the back storage room, wiping his hands off with a sheet of thick fabric that quite literally looked like a hand-sized rag to him. “Major Lennox, I have received the information from this mission. Thank you for your participation and leadership while I was detained here.”

“Any time,” the man replied, making his way up to the catwalk that would bring him closer to the Autobot’s face, ignoring Ratchet’s grumbling. “My question to you is what are we going to do from here on out? There are fourteen Sparklings held somewhere, and _I’m_ pissed as all hell about it. I know that you’ve got stronger feelings on it—” he ignored Ratchet’s snort and muttered, “no, really?” and continued on, “—but I want to at least have those kids in Autobot custody.”

Nodding, his face not giving away any of the roiling of his emotions from rage to deep sadness to an almost-unbearable ecstatic glee, the Prime replied, “I am working on a solution for what to do in the long run, and who I want to have help raise the little ones. But first, I want to send out teams of one human and one Autobot to the locations indicated to do some forward scouting while we have a lull in Decepticon activity.”

“So you were able to get satellite confirmation on it?” Epps replied. “I knew that it was all in code.”

“Glenn Whitman,” Ironhide stated while Arcee slid into the room and began working with Ratchet on whatever it was he was cursing at. “Kid knows what he was doing, had the locations within five minutes. Human codes don’t make any slaggin’ sense sometimes.”

“Nonlinear thinking is how we work, big guy,” Lennox reminded his partner, earning him a “harrumph.”

Making a noise as if he were clearing his throat, Optimus finished cleaning his hands off, tucking the cloth into a compartment in his thigh. “Lennox, I want you to go with Ironhide. He has the locations that you will need and will split them fairly between yourself and two other teams. Burke, I’d like you to go with Sideswipe. Epps, go with Jolt. Twins will remain upon the base, and hopefully, Graham will help us in taking their attitudes down a notch or seven.”

Lennox waited until his men left, leaving only himself among the Autobots. He felt, rather than saw, Ratchet slow his movements and look down at him while he kept his gaze upon Optimus’ own. Long moments stretched by as he studied the leader, paying close attention to his hands and forearms. Finally, after even Ironhide paused all movements, he asked quietly, “So, you want to tell me what you’re hiding?”

“Major—” Ratchet started in a snippy tone.

But the man cut the medic off with a wave of his hand and raising his voice. “I know you’re good at diverting people, and I’ve seen you divert conversations. Now, I like you guys a lot better than I like most of my own species, and I know that I’m holding a lot of secrets for you. But when _you’re_ in this sort of mood, it usually means that someone’s been beaten half to scrap and you’re putting them together again. Nobody was injured worse than a few dings and scuffs on the last three missions, and nobody is waiting to have an arm or leg reattached.” Resting his hands on his hips, the Army man looked up to Optimus. “And you have welding residue on your arms. You missed a few spots.”

Smiling genuinely, if ruefully, Optimus pulled the rag out again to take care of the final bits of slag on his arms. He truly enjoyed humans and their antics. Every moment was unique and enlightening, and it reminded him of having Younglings around with their unending curiosity. “Sharp eyes, Major.”

“Thanks. So?”

_:Punk . . . but a bright one. Kid’s got a point. Well?:_ Ironhide looked up at his leader, the mech he knew would be able to reunite their race as soon as the ’Cons stopped firing their cannons long enough to listen. Wait. What was that saying? Pot calling the kettle black?

Not saying a word, Optimus turned towards the door he had entered the main hangar through, connecting a (comparatively) small room that held most of Ratchet’s supplies. He paused between the two rooms. “Coming, Major?”

Cautiously walking towards the alien, Will followed him into the dark room. “You’re glad that I trust you . . . dark rooms and aliens give a lotta people the creeps.”

Chuckling in response, Optimus crouched down and held his hand out. “You will need to see things from my perspective.”

Lennox trusted the Autobots to do many things around him and to him. He trusted them to snatch him up and run with him, to walk over his head, to carry him, to treat him as if he were one of their own. Hell, he even trusted Ironhide to toss him a fair distance so long as he was going to be caught gently. So it was with ease that he sat himself upon Optimus’ hand, holding onto his thumb while he was lifted to the red and blue mech’s chest height. Without a sound, headlights switched on and he found himself staring down at a welding rig beside the emergency berth, illuminating the occupant.

Jazz.

Or at least, Jazz’s shell, which was no longer in two pieces. “When did you have the time for this?” Lennox breathed, moving to try to peer closer.

Optimus, ever accommodating to his allies, moved his hand closer, angling his headlights upon the shell. “Mostly the last two nights into today.”

“So . . . _you_ welded him together?”

“The first night was concentrated upon his struts, or what you could equate to your skeletal structure. You’ve seen how vital they are for us. Last night was for his armor. Today has been focused upon the finer points. Ratchet is working on the complicated systems.”

“How do you know how to weld like this? I mean, the Twins don’t know up from down for any sort of writing, Ironhide only likes mechanics if it’s going to help him with weaponry—”

“I wasn’t always a soldier,” Optimus replied, gently cutting the human off, moving his hand to the berth to let Lennox off. “I was once a simple dock-worker, who spent far too much time in the archives during his time off. I had once always wanted to learn _more_ and to learn the _whys_ behind certain behaviors. When . . . when I became Prime, I found out more than I ever wished to.”

It wasn’t often that they got to hear about the past lives of Autobots, and as a rule, Optimus didn’t open up to anyone about his past, as he tended to live in the now and look to the future. So to say that it was a shock to hear about something that the great leader had done was an understatement. Staring up at the stately mech with raised eyebrows, Will murmured, “So that’s why you were assisting Ratchet with Bumblebee’s legs after Mission City.”

“Yes.” Sighing, one hand resting feather-light upon the pinging and cooling frame of the fallen Autobot, he added, “When things became too much for me at other points in the war, especially in those first centuries, I would need to escape being Prime, being the great leader. I would lose myself in helping create struts and armor for my soldiers, leaving my second in command to take care of things unless an emergency arose.”

“Wasn’t that Jazz?”

Shaking his head, Optimus murmured, “No. Jazz was my third-in-command.”

“You left the SIC to keep the others in line, didn’t you,” Lennox murmured, looking up at the ancient face with sudden understanding.

Chuckling, the Autobot replied, “My faction is far from perfect; we have a lot of broken and haunted mechs in our ranks, but we work with them to help them help themselves through their brokenness and anguish.” His smile turned from amused to kind and nostalgic, and the gravelly voice was humble and at peace. “I could never ask for greater warriors, friends, and allies.”

“But leaving your second was also strategic. If one of you were killed, the other could take command.”

The unhappy and yet fierce expression upon Optimus’ face was enough to say what he thought about _that_ particular possibility. “I have been remiss. I will have to brief yourself and Epps on procedure in the case of a death of a high-ranking officer.”

“Later,” Will promised, shaking his head and walking around the dead form, taking in the sight of the Lieutenant back in one piece and trying to remember details during the hazy days following the Mission City fiasco. “Didn’t we bury him?”

Chuckling under his breath, Optimus replied, “No. In his files, Jazz stated that if he were to be extinguished, the decision of what to do with his shell was going to be left for a certain other to make.”

“Like a next of kin clause?”

“Precisely. However . . . you had brought up a point not too long ago that had us all begin to search out the possibility of Sparklings.”

Crossing arms over his chest and staring at the inert face, Lennox murmured. “‘What if the Cube could bring a mech back to life.’ Wait.” Sharp blue eyes darted over Optimus’ rather lively expression. “You’re not actually going to try that, are you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Damn. Your kind are about as crazy as mine is.”

Laughing outright at the apt description, Optimus nodded and leaned his hip against the berth. “Well, what else would you like to know?”

The human eyeballed the oddly-relaxed Autobot for a moment, walking back around the berth so that the shell wasn’t between them anymore. “Depends. There are subjects that Autobots are suspiciously closed-mouthed about, and won’t comment upon if it’s brought up in conversation.”

“Humans are notoriously curious, and are infamous for finding out secrets. You have been compared to Sparklings and Younglings of my kind for a reason, Will Lennox; you’re all too infernally good at being curious and getting the answers you had been seeking.” Watching the human for a moment longer, Optimus sighed. “But Ironhide trusts you. And you have not betrayed our trust.”

“Jazz’s ‘next of kin’ isn’t necessarily family-based, like a parent-child relationship, is it.”

“Not in the least.”

“So it’s his partner?”

“Unbonded mate, yes.”

“Can I know the differences?”

“You’re tenacious,” Optimus deadpanned.

“ _You_ gave me permission to be tenacious!” Will retorted, pointing at the big mech with a grin.

Grinning, feeling more at ease than he had in several months, Optimus replied, “A partner, to us, is close to what you would describe a close friend. Nothing more. It comes from when there were many research vessels sent out with an even amount of mechs, each with a partner who had complementary talents. Many partners were lifelong friends as a result.”

The leader picked up a piece of armor that he had yet to reattach to Jazz, turning it over within his hands thoughtfully. Paint nanites had recolonized the plate, brightening the surface from battered grey back to the vibrant silver. “If two mechs or femmes or a mech and a femme were romantically compatible, and this doesn’t just apply to partners, they would begin to explore that facet of friendship. Very rarely does one find a Sparkmate in their first several relationships, much like humans who create familial alliances for love. The term for that relationship is an unbonded mate.”

He put the plate down and returned his gaze directly to Will’s own. “A Sparkmate is one whom is bonded on a level of the Spark, that which gives us life. They found each other suitable for making a lifelong commitment to one another. I will not get into all the details, but there are great advantages to having Bonded with another. However, just as there are human instances of ‘love at first sight,’ or knowing immediately if one is perfectly compatible for another, there is the same phenomenon among my own people.” His expression went distant at these words, his voice almost a whisper as he added, “And seeing or experiencing that moment is . . . indescribable. The only way I can try to explain it is that there is an _energy_ or a feeling of something . . . almost tangible that was not tangible.” His smile was rueful. “It isn’t a term or concept that translates easily.”

Taking this in, Will turned to continue inspecting Jazz’s frame, wincing at the thick welds made along the smaller torso. Some were almost a foot in length along metal plates and exposed struts, but each mark was neat, clean, and he would bet gold that they would have very few flaws. “So Jazz and this other fella were very serious about their relationship, but didn’t want to Bond?”

“Correct, and for precisely the reason you see here. If one of the Sparkbond were to die, it would affect the sanity of the living mech.” He rested his hand upon the silver helm tenderly, his voice soft. “Jazz and his mech didn’t want _this_ to cause the other to become unhinged.”

“The other mech must also be pretty high-ranking, otherwise Jazz’s security clearance would have been worth less than crap. He wouldn’t have been around you as part of your personal team when you landed last year,” Lennox murmured, running through memories of Mission City and all that he’d learned about the Autobots thus far.

“Correct.”

“And that mech wasn’t among your team, and isn’t among your team yet because I haven’t seen someone break down in an unholy, gibbering mess out of grief.” Sighing rubbing his hand through his hair, Lennox muttered, “Not that any of you would let your composure slip quite so far when you’d only just met us.”

“Again, correct on both counts.”

“And this,” he gestured to the repairs, “all means that you want Jazz running and at least at twenty-five percent healed by the time that other mech arrives.”

Optimus didn’t verbally affirm this, as he knew that Lennox was proving why humans were so damned curious. “Your assessment of this situation, Will?” He affirmed the human’s position as his equal by using the man’s given name.

Lennox crossed his arms over his chest and kept his level stare going at the other leader. “Looks like you’re going to have to get Jazz up and running before any more reinforcements arrive with your Second in Command. That guy’s gonna be _pissed_ as _hell_ when he finds out that his lovebug decided to play rough with Megs in the sandbox and might just tell you where to shove your diplomatic words when he goes on a rampage to avenge his fallen lover.”

For once, Optimus was speechless. Thankfully, Ratchet’s roaring laughter at Lennox’s apt description of what they had to achieve was masking his silence.

.o.

Burke, solid as a wall, stared up at the silver frontliner for one very long minute. “I’m _uncomfortable_ with high speeds.”

“I’m _uncomfortable_ with a human squishing my upholstery. You emit methane.”

“You don’t speed, and I’ll leave the beans and chili alone while we go through New Mexico and Texas.”

“Hunh.”

“And all taco stands, and will refrain from eating anything with peppers or broccoli in it.”

“No eating while we’re driving, either or I’ll have you perform a thorough detailing when we get back.”

“I know that the kid and his Camaro are cool with that kinda sloppy eating, but I’d like to think that you and I are a bit more mature than that.”

“You have a deal. Oh, and don’t let Bee hear you call him a kid or immature. He won’t take that from a human. For a Youngling, he’s got talent and bearings of chrome steel. Kid’s got good training and good sense.”

Epps grinned at the two warriors making nice while in the hold of the aircraft before walking up to Jolt. “Hey, man.”

All he got was an absent nod as the blue mech played with holographic representations of spheres and sticks. The communications officer had no damn idea what was so fascinating about playing with what he assumed was molecules, but one of the techies was staring at the structure with clear awe upon his face. Epps knew that guy. He wasn’t in awe of what the hologram was of, but of the hologram itself.

“Sooo . . . what’s that?”

“I’m trying to see if there’s any way to burn your organic fuels in a cleaner fashion. Sometimes having a completely-fresh third party come in and look at what they can see will bring in solutions to troublesome equations.”

“Dude, if we’re running halfway across the Lower Forty-Eight, I’d like to know if you can talk about, yanno, anything other than just chemical compounds and how we’re ruining our ecosystem.”

This seemed to get Jolt’s attention. “You do not take interest in your own world’s matter of how they are expending natural resources?”

“Bro, I’m a soldier. I’m fighting to protect those people who _do_ have the brainpower to do all the fancy footwork. Playing treehugger ain’ in my job description.”

He got a strange look for that, before Jolt fluffed, shuffled his armor and then settled it all again. “Optimus told us to get to know those whom we were working with. I don’t know much first-hand upon how a human family is structured. Would you mind educating me? It’s stated that you’re married and have children on your public records.”

“Public to _you_ , man, but not to the world.” He dug out his wallet from his back left pocket, opening it to show the pictures of his daughters and his wife.

Burke sighed, watching Jolt and Epps begin to really talk. Finally. He shared a look with Sideswipe, tapped his fist to one metal knuckle in a job well done at manipulating teammates, and then settled himself upon a chair. Propping his feet up on a spare crate, the SEAL pulled a spare sidearm out to begin a partial disassemble-and-oil. This was going to be an interesting flight.

.o.

Optimus was never _entirely_ subtle. He could be subtle in diplomatic situations, while in conversation and dealing with his troops, but the mech was just so damn big that he could be heard walking a football field away if he wasn’t actively trying for stealth. He wasn’t designed for subtlety. Those who had served under him for long enough could listen to his pace and tell his mood, as well as who he was going to talk with and who he had just finished talking with.

For example, if he had just talked with Ratchet about trying to hurry up his repairs so that he could continue to do his job, then was walking towards Jazz or Prowl, his pace would have quick, sharp footfalls, combined with a long stride to put as much distance between himself and that “Primus-forsaken pit spawn of a medic” as possible. Being at loggerheads with an officer, even an officer that he knew quite literally for most of his life, always had the Prime grouchy.

But when the pace was slow and deliberate, particularly heavy and ominous, most mechs had the sense to flee. Because those ominous footfalls meant trouble. Angry trouble. And pair “angry Optimus” with “human government” or “twins,” and you had a potentially explosive environment that nobody wanted to stay around for.

The Autobots loved Optimus. They followed him out of love, dedication to the cause, and conviction of the realistic idealism that the officers believed and fought for.

Then again, the Autobots felt their very Sparkpulse stutter whenever they had seen Optimus in a full rage, which was as rare as seeing Megatron gushing over how adorable baby petrorabbits are.

Everyone was sure that Megs, as a Sparkling, had secretly craved owning a petrorabbit.

Ratchet and Arcee looked up at hearing very _angry_ , but not infuriated, Optimus walking closer. They both knew that he had just finished a conversation with their new liaison, a man that everyone, humans included, wanted to see _gone_. Wisely, when the red and blue leader stalked into the makeshift medical bay, the CMO and scout stayed silent as he walked into a back room, closed the door softly, then roared and kicked something once he was out of sight.

One of the humans, a mechanic by the name of Peace Quibbly, fumbled her wrench, caught it before it hit the ground, and kept staring at the door, where various nonhuman words were furiously filtering through the cracks. She looked up at Ratchet, who was wincing at something he heard before shaking his head. “Arcee, post one of your units by the door with some energon. Bring it to him when he’s calm.”

“Did . . . is Prime having a temper tantrum or something?” one of the (admittedly jock) soldiers from NEST asked as he returned to assembling one of many first aid kits for their medic. He was on said medic’s shit list, and aforementioned medic was taking notes out of Ratchet’s behavioral modules and making the muscle-heads do something constructive with their time instead of getting up to stupid pranks and stunts that could get someone killed.

An angered bark in Cybertronix held the tone of an order, causing Ratchet to snarl something in return, earning himself a grunt before Optimus continued his tirade to an audience of none. He turned back to the NEST man. “Out. You’ve been transferred to mess hall cleanup crew and janitor, effective immediately. Your human commanders will approve this. Something you will need to know, Sparkling, is that while you may be able to piss off your human officers without much consequence, pissing off an already-angry mech who is capable of punting you over the other side of the island without much effort is something that I would not advise. Out. Quibbley, you stay; I have more to teach you. All other humans out. _Now_.” His order was underlined by the snarled curses in his native tongue from the other room.

At least by now, Optimus wasn’t kicking anything.

Peace looked up at the CMO as he took the cube of energon from Arcee and shooed her away from the door. He opened it, caught a flying bar of some sort of metal, and set the energon on a shelf with the metal, backing out and putting the door between himself and his leader again. “When you’re done acting like a Sparkling, I want to have a chat with you about what we need to do next about Jazz,” he said in their warbling tongue, then switched to English. “I’ll leave you be, and will keep anyone from entering. Arcee is out here with me as well.”

“My thanks,” Optimus growled in English before falling silent.

The human woman walked over to the workbench that Ratchet was standing in front of, fists resting on hips and gaze focused on something that wasn’t visible to human sight. Glancing down at her, he indicated that she hop up the ladder that was set up for her, reaching down and effortlessly lifting the several-hundred pound chest of tools that she had dragged behind a cart to bring from another hangar. She spoke softly. “So . . . what’s he doing in the storage room?”

Ratchet took his time in replying, giving her enough time to set up what she needed to help him put together the small, but intense, backup power-plant that he had to replace within Jazz before the mech could be revived. This was the work of one day with her small hands and his guidance. Otherwise it would have taken two days of careful work. “He is arguing with ghosts and eternity.”

She, to her credit, took him at his word. “Mm. I know the feeling.”

“Oh?”

“I was raised by hippies-turned-fundies-turned-moderate-Christians,” she replied with a smile before frowning. “But I suppose that might not make a lot of sense to you.”

“I’m researching it . . . ah. Now I understand the context. Now how do you ‘understand the feeling’ as you said? Here, put this piece in that slot, and tighten the screw one and a half rotations. No more.”

“Right.” She took her own time in responding as she carefully measured the turn of the screw. “So, I was raised by parents who went from ‘fanatic’ to ‘normal, every-day’ people. They were good parents, and did as much as they could for myself and my sibs, but when you saw a parent having an argument with the air as a child, it imprints itself into your memory.”

“Are you comparing Optimus to a fanatic? Here. Put this into that casing and seal it.”

“Not in the least.” Peace pushed the functioning goggles up on her nose a bit further. “I understand that they were praying, in the only way that they knew how at the time. As we all matured respectively, I learned that it’s all right to rant and rave at God, at people who weren’t around, in a way to express frustration and get all the emotions off of your chest before proceeding through things logically.”

Ratchet listened to her words, seeing how she accepted the fact that Optimus, was in his own way, praying and ranting to a sympathetic audio. “Hm.”

The woman paused her hands, looking up at Ratchet with a level gaze. “Advanced, sustained cultures always retain faith, no matter how much they will try to disprove it with science. Even atheism is a faith; one chooses to believe in their perception of a lack of a higher power. Each culture, even if it’s only a minority, will retain the belief in a higher power, along with accepting moral boundaries and precepts that will guide them into proper behavior. Your culture would not have lasted so long, even with your unreal but amazing lifespan, if you didn’t have a sound faith.”

“Ah—”

“Nope, I’m not fishing for answers. I’m just seeing what’s already there. Whatever your faith, your mythos, whatever you want to believe in and call it, is all your business. But when my parents grew into being everyday people who weren’t full of the fundamentalist thinking and unrealistic expectations of themselves and their kids, when they became the type of people that you could sit beside and enjoy the silence with them, I would see them from time to time talking out loud, not even going through the formulaic prayer that most religions have. Just . . . _talking_.”

“Into thin air.”

“Supposedly.”

“They call that schizophrenia, you know.”

“And many others will call unseen physical problems, such as asthma or fibromyalgia, curses or being afflicted by a demonic spirit. Besides which, what do you call the theory of evolution?”

“You believe in the theory of creation and intelligent design?”

“Personally, I see more scientific facts pointing to backing up the Bible than I do to support the theory of evolution,” she replied in a matter-of-fact tone, putting the next piece together after getting instruction from the yellow mech. “We’re in a cycle of decay, rather than a cycle that sustains and encourages new growth and change. ’Least, that’s how I see it.”

Optics scrunching up in a smile, Ratchet lowered his voice, “I am not at liberty to speak of some matters . . . but I will review what you’ve said and research this debate. It sounds . . . lively.”

“Lively is understatement,” she grunted, trying to turn a difficult bolt. Hands losing grip, even with the gloves she wore, she went tumbling several feet backwards. Growling and standing, she swung a kick at the wall, huffing and turning back towards the project, lacing fingers together and pulling the leather machinists’ gloves back to the optimum position, resetting the industrial velcro at the wrists to ensure that they wouldn’t slip this time. “Hold that forsaken thing still while I win this fight against that motherless-son-of-a-whore bolt.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Ratchet pointed out.

“Cursing doesn’t –nnngghhhh– have to make any sense!” She braced a foot against one of the outer plates on Ratchet’s closest finger for leverage and put her whole body into turning the bolt, losing grip again, this time moving almost unbelievably into a controlled roll before hitting the surface of the workbench with a fist. “Dammit!”

“Will you allow me to try?” Ratchet asked mildly.

“You’re a pain in the aft.” Shaking hands off, Peace glared at the mech before settling upon a low shelf.

He grinned broadly, and removed the wrench Peace had been using before transforming one finger into that same tool and tightening the bolt with ease. “Your hands are worth Arcee’s combined weight in Praxian high grade for this project.” Seeing her look of confusion, he amended, “Something like worth your weight in Tullamore Whiskey. Now, you let me take care of the hard work, and I’ll let you get elbow-deep into areas that I can’t reach. Here.” He handed her a wrench again, then indicated where to use it. “Tell me more about this debate of evolution and intelligent design.”

Optimus silently closed the door from the minute fraction it had been open, grabbing the cube of energon and staring at the inert silver form before him, hoping that he was making the right decision.

The last thing he wanted to do was to ask Jazz to leave the comfort of Primus’ embrace if the mech was truly ready to rest from this unbearable war.

Could he live with himself if he made the wrong choice?


	5. Sparkling Arc

Ironhide slid to a gentle stop outside of the nondescript farmhouse and barn in the middle of nowhere, eastern Oklahoma, their first step in their road trip. This was the location of the oldest Sparkling they had on record. There were energy signs all over the place that the child was here, as well as signs of habitation for the human. “This is it.”

“Great.” Lennox slid out of the truck, stretching his legs and looking for all the world like a lost tourist. The farce was deliberate as the man walked up towards the door, ringing the doorbell, then turning and looking around him, making sure that his left ear was pointed at the door while he did so to catch any sounds. He heard two dogs barking, followed by the unmistakable sound of metal feet pattering away from the front door on smooth concrete or tiling of some sort. If he hadn’t known that it was a Sparkling, it could have been mistaken for a machine clattering through a wind-down sequence. Within a minute, a human was yelling at the dogs to go lay down. Then the door opened to show a rather tall and stern looking woman. She looked like she was a match for Ironhide in temper by the fierce expression on her otherwise-kind face.

“Can I help you, son?”

“Uh, yeah, hi, I’m lost.”

“I ain’ buying it.”

He dropped the “frightened tourist” look with a wry grin. “I figured you wouldn’t. I’m Major Will Lennox from NEST, which is a reformed version of what Ess-Seven used to be, only with a bit more cooperation from the Neighbors Upstairs.” At her suddenly-interested expression, he continued. “We recently found out that not all of the experiments using the Cube’s energy were terminated.”

“Other babies are _alive_?” she hissed, cutting him off, leaning forward. The gruff look on her face was replaced with a matronly expression of hope. Will saw a bit of movement and the glow of small optics peeking around a corner. He turned his face away deliberately, not wanting to intrude any more than he already was.

“Including the one that we scanned on your property, there are fourteen Sparklings.”

“Sparklings?”

“That’s right.”

“That’s not a term we’d make up.”

“No. It’s a rough translation into English of what _they_ call their babies.”

She turned and looked at the lone optic peeking around a corner, then smiled and looked around Will’s shoulder at the front yard. “So where’s the NBE?”

“Ironhide is the truck. He’s an Autobot, one of the good guys who’s helping us fight off the baddies. That’s virtually it in a nutshell.” He wanted desperately to pay attention to the child still hiding mainly out of sight, but didn’t dare scare the little one by focusing directly upon them. “He came with me to see how the Sparkling is faring, as well as living conditions.”

“Almost like the DSS.”

Grinning, Will conceded that point to the woman. “Except that he’s capable of leveling the place, literally, in order to protect the kiddo. Can we say hi?”

She took a moment to debate the pros and cons of the actions before nodding. “Tell your friend to drive to the back of the house. This was built on a hill, so he won’t be spotted by any strays or people passing by.” Grinning, she shook her head. “I was wondering when you guys would show up. I was starting to worry about how to raise the little fella and how to transfer guardianship of him when I go.”

“Ma’am?” Lennox asked softly.

“Got the cancer in my bones, kid. I have maybe a year. Docs wouldn’t even bother giving me drugs for it.” She shrugged, watching as the truck turned and began to go down behind her house, being considerate and driving gently over the grassy patches. “Name’s Dana. Hey, brighteyes! C’mere, luv.” She crouched and held a hand out to the small Cybertronian, smiling when the expected shake of the head and dart back behind the corner was the result of seeing Lennox staring at them. “He’s shy.”

“That’s all right.” With a smile, he ignored the Sparkling as he walked further into the house. “I have a two year old daughter who does the same thing.” Looking out towards the back, he saw Ironhide pause. “C’mere, and look at this.” His voice was toned so as to include the Sparkling with the childlike and innocent awe that rested in his tones. This was part of one of the many plans he and Hide had developed.

Dana, seeing his plan, moved over to the window. Neither of them ignored the hesitant steps from behind them, which turned into a run as Ironhide began to transform. Will wasn’t sure _how_ the black mech did it, but he made sure that the sequence was slow enough to see that it wasn’t something _scary_ , just something _different_. Ironhide had hoped that the innate understanding of transformation, of mimicking, would be something to comfort the instincts of the child.

Small metal hands and a small metal face plastered itself against the glass window as a burble of unintelligible and chirped syllables fell from the Sparkling’s mouth. Will, no longer watching Ironhide, stood in awe of the clearly-innocent child that was now between him and the window. He smiled, and when Ironhide’s head pulled up to look directly into the house, he felt the clear relief of his friend and Guardian that the Sparkling was intrigued by the shifting parts.

“Ma’am, this is my friend Ironhide. He’s also a pretty amazing warrior, and is the personal bodyguard and friend of their leader.”

“That big silver robot?”

“Uh, no. _That_ guy was the leader of the Decepticons. Long story about that mental case, but the short end of it has him gathering rust in one of the trenches in the Pacific.”

“Hey, kid,” Ironhide said softly. “Bring the Sparkling out to me, yeah? I need to scan his system and install some local language modules.”

The Sparkling jumped at the large voice, but between Dana soothing him with a gentle hand to the helm and Ironhide emitting chirps and twitters that were almost birdlike, the Sparkling settled again. After a bit of cajoling and a few false starts, they finally ushered the child out to Ironhide, who was sitting on the grass, eyeballing a Chihuahua who was continuing to growl at him. “Damn rodents.”

“That’s a dog, dear,” Dana replied in a playfully condescending tone.

“It’s a rodent to me, ma’am, an’ no two guesses ’bout it.” He snorted before doing another scan of the Sparkling. Then, with a crooked grin, he began to flicker some of the lights that were carried over from his vehicle mode, catching the child’s attention and immediately gaining him a small frame clambering over his armor to try to “catch” the objects. Laughing, Ironhide stroked the helm and down along the small back with cautious fingers. “Primus above . . . I’d never thought I’d feel a Sparkling run up over my Spark again.” Smiling tenderly, he curled his fingers around the small frame, which was currently oblivious of the moment of soft tenderness that Ironhide was exhibiting. It was _such_ a cool pattern! Did it mean anything, that light-flicker?

Curling his helm to rest first against the child’s own helm in a parental-type greeting, the old warrior whispered, “Primus. Thank you.” Turning his face up to the perfect white clouds in a perfect blue sky, he murmured, “Thank you for the Sparklings.”

Dana covered her mouth with one hand as tears began to stream down her face. Shaking her head, she felt the young soldier’s arm encircle her shoulders while he asked quietly if she was all right. She shook her head, then nodded, then shook her head again. “I don’t know why I’m crying.” Squeezing eyes shut, she sniffed mightily, then tried to wipe her nose on her sleeve, finding instead an old-fashioned handkerchief pressed into her hand. Rubbing at her eyes and nose, she croaked out, “Will you be taking him from me?”

“No,” Ironhide murmured, moving to touch her shoulder with one gentle finger. “No, Dana, we won’t. He loves you.” She felt the small arms encircle her leg, and she rested one hand, still wet with tears, upon the little head. Ironhide continued. “You said that you have cancer. I will not take joy from you in your final chapter of life. But. I want to have a friend of mine come and see what he can do for you.”

“Do for me?” she asked.

“Ironhide, Ratchet will throw a fit.” Despite his words, Will was grinning, catching onto his partner’s idea immediately.

“So? He needs somethin’ tah bitch about, else his Spark will implode from boredom.” Turning back to the woman, he added, “And he will doubtless want to meet your little one. What’s ’is name?”

“Faust.”

Man and mech grinned to each other before nodding. “Fits.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” Sniffing and rubbing the last visible damage of her tears away, she crouched down and kissed what passed as the little mechling’s cheek, stroking above worried optics gently. “And he doesn’t understand English, but he understands tone. That’s how we’ve communicated over the last five years.”

Ironhide clicked rapidly in a serious of undulating tones, which caught the Sparkling’s attention, causing him to return in kind, small voice shocked but happy. Back and forth they went for almost three minutes before the big mech grinned and Faust turned to hug Dana’s waist enthusiastically and carefully. “Kid’s got a good head on his shoulders, too. You’ve done better than I or my comrades would have ever imagined for a human to raise one of our own, but stories later. First, I want to get this bratling updated with English language mods and a few more upgrades. His OS needs a bit of tweaking and he’s in need of a good, long defrag triggered by a handy bit of Caretaker programming. He’s been having nightmares?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“I’ve raised several Sparklings. If they don’t like sleeping, they usually have a reason.” Ironhide pulled out a hardline cable and plugged into the Sparkling after bribing him closer with a sliver of an energon goodie, a sweet that he and Ratchet had made before everyone went out as a way to treat and reward Sparklings for good behavior. “He’s bright, though. Real bright. Slag. I ain’t seen aptitude like this since . . .”

Grinning, Will shook his head at this side of Ironhide. He’d never seen anything like this before, and wouldn’t have expected it out of the big lug. Half an hour passed with the Sparkling doing just what Ironhide said he would, and Ironhide all but begged to hold the deeply-recharging Faust while the humans ate dinner. The language mods would integrate themselves while the child slept. Just as they entered the kitchen, his cell went off. Wincing, begging an apology, he answered it. “Graham?”

“Have trouble brewing. Parent won’t let us in, and he’s threatening the child.”

“Shit.” He winced towards Dana, who looked amused at the turn of phrase. “Sorry for the language ma’am.” Returning his attention to the phone conversation. “Which house are you at?”

“North of Dallas, in the farmlands.”

Knocking on the window to get Ironhide’s attention, Will pointed to the phone, signaling his partner to patch himself into the conversation. Hearing the distinctive warbling bleep, Will summed up the situation, then continued, “We’re about an hour from you, Graham.”

“Orders on dealing with this?”

“Keep ’em talkin’,” Ironhide said firmly, “until the backup can make it. I assume that yah shot off an SOS the moment yah heard trouble?”

“Yessir. Did you make contact?”

“Yep. Have a sleeping baby on my lap. Most beautiful thing I’ve seen since the Helix Gardens back home.”

“Right.” Graham clearly didn’t care about strange alien comparisons of children to gardens. “Any chance that they’d be willing to bring a second child—Holy mother of God! Sideswipe!”

Will stared at the phone in horror as a crunch was the last sound emitted. He opened the window and ordered, “Ironhide, patch through to Sides and tell me what the hell just happened?!”

“Wait!” Dana looked at the two men. “Is another baby in trouble?”

Ironhide’s voice was distracted as he answered. “Not anymore. Kid panicked, went out a second-story window, which wouldn’t do much more’n dent some platin’. Sideswipe caught the Sparkling an’ transformed just as Dallas SWAT teams stormed the house. Kid’s still in a panic, but Sideswipe’s on his way up here. Graham won’t chance sitting in a car with a panickin’ Sparkling, wise kid, and will be rentin’ a vehicle to drive up here with some GPS. His cell wasn’t damaged, he just shut the conversation off abruptly. I wired him the address here, an’ Sideswipe is not a happy camper, but is tryin’ tah calm th’ babe down.”

Dana nodded once. “If you’ll help with costs, I’ll keep up to three kids here.”

Smiling, Will leaned against the wall, the possible plans he and Optimus had formed together coming to the forefront of his mind. “Do adults count as kids?”

“Depends on their maturity level and if I have t’ beat sense into them.”

Will nodded one sharply. “Would you mind if we asked you if you wanted to sponsor and help keep some of the Sparklings together, almost like a nursery, with a few adults stationed here to help keep some semblance of order and give everyone some time away from the kids each day?”

“You mean, share the responsibility of raising the babies between humans and NBEs?”

“Autobots,” Ironhide corrected gently. “An’ yes.”

“Hun, you’re asking the right woman. So long as they don’t completely outnumber us three to one, I’m all for that. Doubling Faust’s nature in a second child would be far too much for my old bones, but having help would be wonderful.”

Ironhide chuckled. “Some could handle up to five fresh-created Sparklings at a time for hours on end. Old mech named Kup could keep an entire classroom of ’em settled and listening to his stories. I was one of those kids, an’ he was already an old mech by that time. My boss will choose the right mechs for the job when they arrive. For now, we’re still focused on finding out where the bratlings are.”

“Well, I have plenty of land here, and if you want to provide materials and manpower, I don’t see why we can’t add more housing for both kids and adults.”

“You’re Primus-sent. You’re hired.”

.o.

Faust awoke with the knowledge of three things. First, he had not had any nightmares while he recharged. Second, his mind was in an order that was different, but a _good_ different, than the day before. And third, there were more of _his kind_ around, surrounding him. And as he processed those three things, he sat up so fast that his helm thudded painfully into the hard armor of a mech who still cradled him upon a lap.

“Oop. Sorry, bratling. I didn’t think you’d move that fast after booting.”

The voice was vaguely familiar, and as he winced and gasped with pain, Faust looked up to see the black mech from the day before soothing a distressed . . . “Another Sparkling?”

“Mm? Yes. Younger than you, and been through something very scary. She won’t let me get a hardline connection.”

“Oh. That is bad.” He spoke English in a proper, absent fashion while looking behind him. He saw a silver mech sprawled out under the sunlight, clearly out for the count and recharging.

Ironhide followed his gaze, but answered his spoken words instead of the unspoken question in his optics. “Yes it is. It means that she’s too scared to trust anyone.”

“That is very bad. We have to trust caretakers, right?” Slowly, he began to access the other language files, learning contractions, colloquiums, figures of speech, and generic slang terms in under a minute. 

“Absolutely, Faust. But her caretakers weren’t always kind or caring.” Smiling, resting a hand briefly upon Faust’s helm, Ironhide returned it to the femmling that still clung to his shoulder. She was a cranky, colicky little creature, one who had hissed at Will and Dana when they had moved to try to get her out of Sideswipe’s interior. That hadn’t ended well, and Sideswipe had simply transformed around the femme to end up with her realizing at the last moment that he was _one of me_ and therefore, _to trust_. So then getting her off of the silver chest had been a fun battle. “Now. Tell me. How has Dana been treating you?”

“She’s . . . she’s my caretaker. I love her. But she’s sick. Very sick. I don’t like her being sick. She smells like death some days. Pheromone and hormone levels are unstable, off, bad, different.”

“Again, that is a truth. And nobody likes that she’s that sick. But we are going to see what we can do to make her better, all right?”

“All right.” Faust leaned against the black mech. “Where’s Momma?”

Smiling, glad that the Sparkling was assimilating the English language and the cultural modules quickly, Ironhide replied, “Inside. Go and say good morning to her. She’d love to hear you speak her language.”

With a happy squeal that startled Sideswipe awake, Faust was off like a shot, darting into the house and startling Will and Graham, both of whom had slept very little and were nursing identical black cups of coffee. Skidding to a halt on the tiled flooring, the little one greeted Will solemnly, then turned to the new man. “Hello. I’m Faust. Dana’s Sparkling. Who are you?”

Grinning, the Brit replied, “I’m Graham, kiddo. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Thank you! But I have to find Momma now.” And he darted off again, hearing the gentle chuckles of the two men following his heels as he entered the room he normally slept in with Dana. She was still in bed, lines of pain streaked across her forehead and cheeks. He traced the lines gently before whispering, “Good morning, Momma.”

Slate grey eyes opened slowly before the woman whispered, “Good morning, Faust.”

“You don’t feel well today.” He curled up closer to the woman, sliding under the covers and carefully closer to her, just like any five-year-old child would do. “I don’t like you not feeling well.”

Smiling, ignoring leaking eyes, Dana whispered, “I feel better hearing your voice.”

“But your body doesn’t feel better.”

“No, but my heart does. That’s more important than my body.”

“Do I have a heart, too?”

“Mmhm. But yours is shaped differently than mine. Yours is called a Spark. And I’ve heard that they’re something special.”

Faust was silent for a few moments before he whispered, “It doesn’t matter what the shape of a heart is. Mine hurts because your body is sick, Momma.”

“Oh, darlin’.” She wrapped her arms around him, smiling through her tears. “You care so much for me. The Autobots said that they’ll see if they can find a way to heal and fight this sickness off.”

“Good. I want to live forever with you.”

“And I want to see forever with you, my little lucky charm. Now. If I don’t get out of bed today, I’m not going to be good for anyone tomorrow. Can you get me a few things?”

Sitting up, Faust asked, “Jeans, boots, tee shirt, socks?”

“And?”

“A towel! You need a shower. And that drink that you like in the morning.”

“Atta boy!” Levering herself upright with a groan, Dana sighed and rubbed at her hips and lower back. “Now do you know how I like that drink?”

“Uh-huh! You put two small spoons of sugar into it with about _this much_ of the white stuff that’s in the tan paper container on the re-fridge-er-a-tor door.” He held his fingers an inch apart, optics bright and dancing with glee at the fact that they could use _words_ and _terms_ that they were each able to understand! So much frustration and anger from their conversations would be gone!

“Good man! Then can you bring it to me while I take a shower?”

“Yeah!”

“That’s my boy!” She smiled as he darted from the room. Ironhide had been right about the language mods. They just helped take what was intuition and give them labels to communicate with. His advice about treating the boy the same way that she had always treated him was priceless. While Dana had worried that all the updates and changes to Faust’s OS would change who he was, Ironhide had continually reassured her that what he was doing was only streamlining the way that the bratling already thought, processed, and reasoned, in order to make way for new learning. The only reason why she trusted him was that he named off the many Sparklings he had raised, along with a hologram representing each and every one of their faces from Sparkling to Youngling to Adult.

This final year of her life was going to be an adventure and a half. And she looked forward to every moment of it with the little alien boy that she called her son.

Dana stood and shuffled her way into the bathroom with the clothing Faust had brought to her, feeling the seed of hope uncurl in her heart.

Hope that somehow, she would be able to live to see Faust grow up.

.o.

Sideswipe felt a small weight plaster itself around his chest. Grunting, he activated one optic sleepily to see the small femme clinging to him. The warmth of the yellow sunlight was making him wonderfully drowsy as he absorbed the light and energy, passively charging his backup power generator. It was like he was enjoying a particularly soothing warmed and spiced low-grade cube right before bed. Sunstreaker was going to _love_ this planet, just for the feeling of the sun alone.

“Hey, scraplet.” He stroked along her head, feeling her pressed her face into his chest again. Sighing, he looked up at Ironhide. “Still couldn’t get through to her?”

“She won’t let me, but I’d like you to try suggesting it to her. Right now, her levels of communication are the Sparkling jibber and tonal readings. She’s young. Maybe one of the youngest.” Ironhide sighed.

“You know I’ve never raised a Sparkling, right? I don’t have the mods for understanding their words.”

“Huh. Thought that it was innate. Eh. Here, open up, I’ll give you the mods.”

“Eewww, hardline?”

“Punk, are you flirting with me?”

“Nope. I know better than to do that. But still, a hardline? Is that necessary?”

“It’s a file I’d rather not transmit through the air. Give me a wrist port.”

“Damn.” He offered his free arm, feeling Ironhide plug in and send a file that was pretty massive. Shunting it to a holding processor for antivirus and malware scans to look at it, he looked down to see the Sparkling looking at the cord leading into his arm from Ironhide. Frowning, she looked up at the big black mech, then to Sideswipe’s face. He blinked, then pulled the plug out, handing it back to the larger mech. “Huh. I think we might have started to solve the problem.”

“Oh?”

“What’s she been saying when she’d refuse updates?”

“Something about a bad plug, a cold plug. And yeah. I’m pretty certain that they tried to hack her. Which is why, after realizing how much she trusts _you_ , I’d rather you to work with her. Optimus isn’t too happy about this, but knows that so far, you’re the one she trusts.”

“Oh, he’s grouchy because he can’t be here to dote on the babies himself.”

“Heh. Yeah, but he’s planning on coming over once we get this Sparkling nursery set up.”

The little femmling reached over and touched the exposed port on Sideswipe’s wrist, frowning, then looking to her own wrists, finding nothing. She touched the port on the back of her neck, right where it met her torso, then looked up at Sideswipe and chirped mournfully. He smiled, unlocking and integrating the language and behavior pack for Sparklings, retroactively understanding that she had been muttering “cold” over and over again until she had settled on his warm chest. He stroked the side of her face with a large but gentle finger, chirping in return a string of reassuring tones and words. He held his wrist port up for her to look at again, and she began to explore his frame curiously. Sighing, Sideswipe knew that it would be days before she would trust him to work with her processor, but the time would be spent so very well.

.o.

Ratchet was glancing out through the sheets of rain at hearing Optimus having a heated conversation with a human on the hangar across from the medical bay. Thankfully, their “liaison” wasn’t up to dealing with monsoons and wasn’t anywhere around the base right now, so this conversation was between equals. He and General Morshower were enjoying a mutual griping session regarding this new human, hoping that his position was temporary.

With a sigh, Ratchet returned to the back room, reading the monitors that were set up around the very still silver form. “Well?”

The dry chuckle was filled with pain, but there was amusement in it.

Jazz turned dim optics upon his medic. “I must be crazier’n a turbofox in a room full o’ petrorabbits, doc, for tellin’ Prime that I knew I was still needed on this side o’ th’ Matrix. ’M hurtin’ worse’n anytime ever before in mah life, but I’ll be slagged if I’m goin’ back ta Primus when I know that I’m needed _here_. Sparklin’s runnin’ around? Prowl’s comin’ ta Earth? Sunny and Sides’re gonna be reunited after bein’ slaggin’ apart f’r almost a millenia? _And_ not ta mention th’ boy an’ Bee are gonna need someone ta rant to, ’cause Prime sure as Pit ain’t up ta listenin’ ta Younglin’ whinin’.” Stretching carefully, Jazz murmured, “I’m needed, man. It feels good.”

Smiling, Ratchet murmured, “Good. Then rest. Only Optimus and I know that you’re back online right now, and I plan on keeping it that way until we can move you.”

“Mm. Ya drugged me.”

“Been drugging you for the last two days.”

“Heh. Ta keep me sane?”

“To keep you on that damn berth while chase down all the errors and problems with your frame. It would annoy me to fix you only to have you stumble into stasis because of a popped seal on an energon line.”

“Heh. Only _you’d_ be merely annoyed at havin’ ta pump energon back inta me.”

“Shaddup, slagger. And you get back to recharging. You need it.”

“Mmkay. Hey, Ratch?”

Smiling, taking a seat upon the stool beside Jazz’s berth, he replied, “Yeah?”

“Thank ya for fixin’ me up.”

“Wait until after Prowl’s done chewing us both out before you thank me. Rest.”

With that, dim optics flickered off and the saboteur drifted into a peaceful recharge, leaving Ratchet to stare at the frame with wonder and no little joy that it . . . that _everything_ worked. The Shard had worked. Jazz had wanted to come back. His frame didn’t have major problems being reanimated.

He vowed to himself and to Primus that once Jazz was walking, he’d pull out that small stash of high grade he had hidden, and would _personally_ get gleefully overcharged with at least two other officers around.


	6. Sparkling Arc 5: When I Still Needed You

Everything was finally ready.

Behind closed medbay doors under the pretense of Optimus getting some extensive cleaning done after a mission in South America (which wasn’t far from the truth, since he was still finding muck from that continent embedded behind his grille), Ratchet and his leader watched Jazz carefully as the mech went through movements specified by the medic. He didn’t have his full flexibility back and wouldn’t have it back for at least several months. Jazz wasn’t going to be put on the active duty roster for some time, but he _was_ moving and working at getting his frame back into shape after the intensive repair. So far, Optimus noted that he wasn’t showing any signs of insanity. He remembered what to look for. The first sign of a problem forming would be if Jazz cut himself off from all communications.

Primus, he barely had a moment’s time to _think_ when Jazz was awake, not _quite_ demanding answers to what had been going on in the human year that he had been dead, but asking enough details that he might as well be a mind on the active duty team.

“Well, you’re walking and you’re moving. Now to get you somewhere peaceful so that you can continue to rehabilitate yourself. You’ve had limbs ripped off before; you know how much time it takes to get everything back to normal. This is going to be slightly different. You have to get your entire _frame_ back to normal, and while I have case studies of reanimated mechs, none of them had your modifications.”

Jazz had paused, not looking at either officer before him. His gaze was upon his hands, which were still the spiked killing machines of war. He missed the multi-hinged digits that he once possessed during the peaceful times . . . he missed playing music. “Almos’ normal. I look forward ta not havin’ killer’s claws again.” Looking back up at his commander and fellow officer, he asked, “Does Prowl know that I died?”

Ratchet and Optimus shared a telling glance. Sighing, knowing that the responsibility was his alone, the Prime answered, “Yes. He was notified, through Sideswipe speaking to Sunstreaker.”

“Ah, _Pit_. How’d he take it?”

“About as well as you’d take the news of _him_ dying. He removed himself from active duty for a week to mourn, was carefully overcharged almost the entire time to dull the pain. Sunstreaker insisted that he had personally kept an eye on Prowl unless First Aid or Kup were available.”

_“Kup?!”_

“Yep. Looks like I’m not the last old-timer around,” Ratchet grouched, reaching over to swat at Jazz’s helm. “Now. We have a schedule to keep, and you need rest. You can either get onto the trailer yourself, or you can be drugged and tied down and put onto the trailer.”

“Wait, wait. First.” Jazz held one finger up, flipping his visor out of the way so that he could really _look_ at Optimus, gaze intense and open. His emotions were clear to read from his optics, so it was clear why he wore a visor in the first place. “Does Prowler know that I’m _alive_ again.”

Optimus shook his head, emotions warring over his face between joy, mischief, and grief. “I didn’t want him to get his hopes up. And I wanted to assess him when he arrived to see if he was able to be a stable Second in Command if you were incapacitated again. Oh, don’t give me that look, Jazz! You and I _both_ know that you’re an easy target right now, and you’ll still be recovering for at least an Earth year! I’m not talking about your physical recovery on that point, so you slagging close your mouth. I would rather face Prowl’s wrath at withholding the information, than—Oh. One moment.” Pausing, receiving the file from Sideswipe that he had requested a week prior, he reviewed it and sent it to Ratchet. Thankfully, it was encoded so only officers could open and read it, so Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had no clue what it was about, since the missive that _he_ had sent which prompted this response was also encoded. Hopefully, those two knew better than to try to hack into officer communiqués after the last time.

“What? C’mon, mechs, _what_?” Jazz walked closer, careful of his still-unsteady equilibrium. He shoved hands onto his hips and glared up at the duo.

“Well, we have a preliminary psych profile on your lover,” Ratchet muttered, rereading it carefully to make sure that he hadn’t missed anything.

“I want to see.”

“Jazz,” Optimus warned, optics narrowing in on his third in command.

Snarling a string of curses, Jazz hissed in Cybertronian, “It’s because of _my_ actions that he’s goin’ through grievin’ for the _only_ mech he was able to see himself livin’ _for. Don’t_ make me blackmail either of ya.”

Ratchet was unprepared for the force of emotions that were emanating from the small mech. But Optimus seemed to take it in stride. _Slagger_ , Ratchet thought with amusement. _But then again, that’s why he’s the Prime and I’m the grouchy CMO._

“It’s not good news.”

“He suicidal?”

“All but. He’s holding onto duty as a way to get by.” Transferring the file to Jazz, feeling comfort simply by knowing that he _could_ , Optimus added, “My personal opinion on the psych report is that once he gets here, we bring _him_ where we’re bringing _you_. Along with Kup, First Aid, and Sunstreaker. Twins won’t like it, but they’ll at least be on the same planet again.”

Wincing as he read through the report, Jazz whispered, “Who else is on that ship?”

“Ultra Magnus, Firestar, Blurr, Hot Rod, Wheeljack, Grimlock, Swoop, Que, Dino and Springer, for starters. They haven’t updated their public roster for security reasons, but I have the feeling that what _wasn’t_ mentioned in any report, but what _is_ truth, is that there are two more Praxians alive. Matrix confirmed that when I asked, as well as a vague location of them.”

“They’re with Prowl,” Jazz breathed, his entire frame feeling relaxed for just that moment of knowing that Prowl wasn’t going to be alone. “Oh, thank Primus. Good. Blue an’ Smokey?”

“And they’re making sure that he’s staying sane, looks like. I think what First Aid is hinting at is that they, as brothers, adopted Prowl into the family bonds so that he had one more level of support if he were to try to suicide. Sib-bonds, as you know, can forestall the extinguishing of a Spark if they’re strong enough. And I remember how tight a bond that Smokescreen and Bluestreak share; almost as tight as Sunstreaker and Sideswipe’s split-Spark twin bond,” Ratchet murmured, fisting his hands and then releasing them, curling fingers around the plating on his hips while he went over the report a third time, this time as a mentor. After all, First Aid was once his apprentice. But he could find only one fault, and even then, it was in the personal opinions section of the report and was a misplaced glyph.

“They forged th’ bond so he wouldn’t follow in th’ footsteps of his creator. Slag, man. Good. ’M glad.” He frowned at finding one piece of information in the report, then outright hissed wordlessly. “ _Sunstreaker_ was found _snugglin’_ with _ma Prowler_?! When I get ma hands on him—”

“You’ll do _nothing_ ,” Optimus growled, pressing his finger against Jazz’s shoulder. “Read on. You’ll see that Prowl had a bad time that day, and Sunny was the only one brave enough, or stupid enough, to face Prowl down, let him vent, rant, rave and break down, then all but rocked him to sleep as you would a Sparkling. A _Sparkling_ , Jazz. Prowl’s not doing well.”

The silver mech winced and rubbed at one of the welded struts, getting ghost pain for a moment. He sighed, then looked up and dared to command a Prime. “Get ’im here with an advance crew. I want him here. He needs me.”

“Many mechs need you, Jazz.”

“Yeah, but there’s only one mech that _I_ need, too. Him. I need him, Prime. Get him to me.”

Nodding, honestly quite glad that Jazz was thinking just as selfishly as he was selflessly. Optimus murmured, “Absolutely. Now. Let’s get you to that rehab we spoke of.”

“Which ya _still_ won’ lemme know anythin’ ’bout! Slaggit, Prime, you’re annoyin’!”

“And yet you continue to follow me, so I’ll take that as a complement,” Optimus chuckled, seeing the trembling of silver limbs with the effort to remain standing. He scooped the mech up, ignoring the indignant shouts, and settled him down upon the trailer bed where two cubes of energon and several tablets filled with scans of human books were already resting. “Now. You settle down and rest. You’ve been standing for two hours, which is twice as long as yesterday, but I don’t want you harming yourself by pushing it. I need you back, Jazz. I need you as fully operational as possible, as _soon_ as possible, but only within healthy boundaries. Do you understand?”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Bitch.”

“Wouldn’t that be _you_ , since you’re submitting to my orders?”

Jazz threw his head back and laughed at the quick turn-around, nodding and settling back as Optimus transformed the trailer, covering the flatbed with panels. The red and blue mech patted the top twice, getting two thumps in return, before he then transformed and hooked himself up. Ratchet opened the hangar door for his leader, while the red and blue semi was warning Jazz if he was about to hit any rough spots or make any drastic turns.

When they reached the C-17 that was going to bring them State-side, many humans watched as Optimus expertly turned and backed the trailer in. He paused halfway to shuffle the length down by several feet to accommodate the cargo hold size, which caused no few plane and truck enthusiasts to whistle in appreciation. Once he was parked, Ratchet walked up and looked into the cargo hold. “Hm. We maxing out the plane capacity yet?”

“How much does that trailer weigh?” one of the mechanics asked in reply, eyeballing it. “Can’t tell with the way that you Autobots carry weight around.”

Optimus measured it up. “It’s well within the carrying capabilities of the plane. Ratchet, get in. You’re not escaping this mission.”

“Slag. I hate flying.”

The flight went without incident, and with a constant stream of chatter flowing between all three mechs. Prime could sense Jazz’s exhaustion, even though the saboteur was trying hard not to show that he wanted nothing more than recharge. So as soon as they were on the ground again, he made the decision to take a slightly-slower, slightly-longer route to their destination, one that would lull Jazz into recharge. Sparklings passed out while riding in a carrying hold, and the trailer was designed to imitate that feeling so as to keep Jazz calm. Ratchet commented that if Jazz knew what they had planned for him and what they were comparing him to, he would either be irritated at them for a month, or be vastly amused and make the best of it. Since his revival . . . either possibility was feasible.

_:So, now that the Sparkling is sleeping, Prime, have you gotten the updates from Ironhide?:_ Ratchet asked, as he traveled in Optimus’ slipstream.

Chuckling, Optimus replied, _:Absolutely. I’m surprised that Jazz hadn’t picked up on my excitement to be off of that damn base and “stretching my wheels.” It’s frustrating to be confined, but the humans are still so uneasy about us.:_

_:Nnmph. True. As an officer, I’m going to suggest that you start negotiating for usage of bases here on the mainland. At least one on either coast and one in the central region. Three bases isn’t a lot of space, Prime.:_

_:No. And if the Decepticons decide to openly attack America, it will give us a minimum of three bases where we are already cleared to land. I will bring this up with General Morshower and see if we can get this secured. He is a man I respect and whose judgment is clear.:_

_:He also hates bureaucratic twiddle-aft-headed children.:_

_:Then I’m surprised that he hasn’t started to hate you, old friend, for your senatorial duties in the past. I’m sure that if he was around you long enough, he’d see just what you had been.:_

Ratchet chuckled before answering. _:I was a medic far longer than when I became a senator and advocate for advancing medical knowledge of our kind. You remember me; I don’t tolerate stupidity no matter my profession.:_

The rest of their drive passed in companionable silence until they found themselves on a sizable ranch in Eastern Oklahoma. Driving up the service road and carefully avoiding the potholes and large bumps, he felt the Matrix reaffirm his choices regarding the Sparklings and regarding Jazz. He smiled inwardly and pulled around a corner, slowing carefully to a stop when he saw seven Sparklings.

His Spark leapt within his chest and he felt as if he were overcharged, and yet without any of the judgment-impairing effects. His processors were light, dancing, almost fogged, and yet noting every detail with painstaking exactness. Silently, his Spark cried out to the Matrix, to Primus Himself, with thanks, with gratitude, with happiness, joy, peace, excitement. He couldn’t describe how the weight of the last few years fell from his mind and Spark, but he knew that it was gone when Ratchet transformed beside him, walking beside him as he rolled those few final feet to pause and watch the Sparklings stare at him.

Of course they would stare. When he was first Prime, and when he was leading his people, Sparklings would always gather around him. He had the Matrix. He was the beloved leader. He was the magnetic personality, albeit in a different way than Megatron’s personality was magnetized. Where Megatron had attracted the soldiers, the guards, those who loved precise order and structure, Optimus attracted the children, the soft-Sparked ones, the ones who wanted to convey a concern. Megatron lead through power and structure; Optimus lead through the Spark and compassion.

Not much had changed through their lives in those regards.

Optimus stared at the seven little wonders before him, then carefully left the trailer where it was, transforming easily and as gently as he was able to, hearing but not registering Ironhide’s words as his bodyguard moved up to him. He was focused upon their children.

Their future.

.o.

Ironhide was in Primus’ Court. He had to have been. Laughing, he “tickled” one Sparkling while four others were trying to clamber up his back, careful not to get between his armor and his inner workings as he yelled happily, clicking and warbling notes of playful defeat. Tumbling down without squishing precious little hands, he looked up at the gaggle of humans walking out of the house. Most of the embedded former Sector Seven agents had refused to work with the Sparklings for any longer. Even with the promise of having English modules programmed in, they were burned out, and were even _embittered_ that the child they had been raising, or “keeping,” as some had said, wasn’t taken from their care sooner.

To be honest, out of the seven situations where Sparklings had been recovered, only Dana had wanted to keep in direct contact. They were waiting here until backup and more mechs could arrive to help out with keeping Sparklings in line.

Dana smiled at seeing Faust clamber and tumble over Ironhide’s cannon fearlessly to dart over and bounce on the balls of his feet right in front of her. “Was the meeting really boring?”

“No, brighteyes, it wasn’t. We had some very interesting things to discuss.”

“Really? Then why couldn’t I have been there? Major Lennox said that it was going to be boring and I wouldn’t want to be there.” He looked at the blinking human with a vague hint of hurt upon his little face. “Were you lying to me, Major Lennox?”

Dana blinked at the child, before looking up at a rather amused Ironhide, who was settling the four other boisterous Sparklings for a story. Sideswipe had proven himself invaluable just by being his off-duty lazy self. The two quiet Sparklings, that young femme and another young mech, were still getting over the trauma of being removed from their caretaker. While he soaked in the warmth of the sunlight, he had two bitty heat-leeches curled either to his side or directly over his Spark. He, unlike his twin, didn’t care about getting scratches on his paintjob. The kids were hardly heavy or strong enough to do anything other than scuff the paint a little.

“Faust, I _thought_ that it was going to be a boring meeting. But, from some news I got while we were _in_ the meeting, I think it turned out to be pretty exciting. If I’d known that you would be—”

A shriek interrupted him, followed by a tussle between two Sparklings. Ironhide gently shoved the two away from each other with a bark in Cybertronian, which instantly had the two looking like kicked puppies. He took the small toy that had started the fight and subspaced it, placing them not _away_ from each other because of the fight, but rather _beside_ each other, with the other two Sparklings acting as bookends, settling to tell a tale in his native language, instantly gaining the complete attention of the Sparklings.

Sideswipe, who was sitting with the femme whom he had dubbed Iris because of her large optics, and the little mech Hudson, smiled at the storytelling. “I remember this. This is one of the ways that we teach Sparklings. Not just the stories, but also having to deal with people that you don’t necessarily like. We’re reminded that to be connected to someone is worth everything, and even if the connection starts out with a lot of arguing, it will often cultivate itself into being a strong friendship later on.” He smiled, chirping at Iris, gaining himself a rare, sweet smile. “For the stories, we’ll use words that they don’t know, and will have to ask us what the definition is, or will start to contradict ourselves to see who is paying attention. Faust, you should go over and join them, little guy.”

“I wanna stay with Momma. Ironhide is cool, but _she’s_ my caretaker. I’ll learn from _her_.”

Sideswipe shrugged and rested his hand along Iris’ helm, feeling her press against him trustingly while Hudson stayed curled up on his thigh, right against his hip. “Mmkay. I wasn’t ordering you, you know. It was only a suggestion. It’s a really cool story.”

Making a face of vague irritation, the Sparkling replied, “I can hear him and process what he’s saying over here. I’ll ask him the words later. Major Lennox? You were saying?”

Grinning, the man replied, “Next time, if you want to come and join us, I think you’d like it.”

“I would like to be included.”

“I can tell. Tell me, is it because you’re really interested with how we’re going to be organizing the farm, or is it that you still don’t trust us and you want to be able to protect Dana?”

Spine straightening, Faust jerked in reaction, then looked around before returning visual contact to Lennox. “H-how did you know?”

“I’m a leader, kiddo. And I’ve seen a lotta kids who want to keep their parent protected. It’s all right; Dana deserves to have a protector as fierce as you.” Standing, he looked at Iris and Hudson, he sighed and whispered, “I wish that all of your generation had caretakers as kind, generous and understanding as Dana.”

There was a chorus of words chirping from the Sparklings sitting before Ironhide, causing him to laugh and hold his hands up, continuing to tell his story. He paused, though, at the sound of a diesel engine approaching by the service road. “Well. He’s eager.”

Ratchet was the first around the corner, transforming and walking closer with his smooth gait, pausing at seeing the Sparklings, then letting himself smile. Sideswipe wasn’t the only one who gaped at the kind expression upon his face. He walked beside the still-transformed Optimus, who was pulling his trailer with careful exactness. Ironhide stood, walking over to face his leader. “Who’s in the back? You never move like this if you’re only hauling freight.”

The Sparklings got to their feet, even the two shy ones, facing the rig and focusing with alien intensity upon it. Dana had heard about the Autobot leader from his comrades and the humans. Everyone held him with great respect, but with a certain amount of amusement on their faces as they spoke of how they enjoyed giving him some flak over his super-solemn and too-serious demeanor. Ironhide especially was not just a bodyguard and weapons specialist, but also a good friend to the Prime. As all good friends did, he made sure that Prime was teased, sometimes mercilessly, until he broke and laughed.

And yet, at seeing the Sparklings reacting to someone they hadn’t seen before, and it was clear that they were watching only Optimus, not the chartreuse mech beside him, all this made her wonder at why this new Autobot was able to command their attention so absolutely. She touched Faust’s shoulder as the three Autobot officers conversed silently, speaking in a soft tone among themselves at the Prime’s apparently-odd behavior. “What is it? What am I not sensing?”

“I . . . I don’t know the words. But . . . he feels like _home_ , Momma. Home and . . . like . . . you. Only masculine. A father, perhaps?”

“That’s the right word,” Lennox said, watching how Hudson took a step forward, then turned and clung to Sideswipe’s hip again, wide optics brimming with trepidation.

That was when Optimus transformed in the most artistic and fluid fashion that Dana had yet seen, standing tall and regal, and yet, somehow humbly. He took a step forward, optics upon the Sparklings, then crouched and settled himself upon the ground. That point signified the moment when the bold ones grew timid, and the timid ones grew bold. Sideswipe stood, scooping both Hudson and Iris up, resting them down with the four. Dana gently pushed at Faust’s back. “Go, son.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Go.” She smiled reassuringly and then chuckled as he darted up beside the timid duo, blinking at them before chirping and taking their hands in his.

They blinked as he looked up at the leader fearlessly and said, “I’m Faust. You’re Optimus. Ironhide thinks that you’re a pretty amazing warrior and leader. Why do you feel like we know you already?”

Smiling and chuckling, Optimus murmured soothingly, “I am Optimus. I’m a Prime. Do you know what that means?”

The line of Sparklings shook their heads.

“I hold what we call in English the Matrix of Leadership, an artifact that holds the memories and is the physical representation of a direct, two-way connection to the Primes of the Past. They are connected to our home planet, our planet of origin: Cybertron.” Smiling, he tilted his head and just took in the seven little ones before him. They were so wonderful. Precious and innocent. “What are your names?”

Iris hid her face behind Faust before peeking out at the largest Autobot currently on Earth. When she saw his gaze upon hers, she hid her red eyes again. Faust looked up at Optimus, his own ruby optics blinking solemnly. “Iris doesn’t speak. She hasn’t gotten English mods yet. Her and Hudson don’t like plugs.”

The mech settled himself more comfortably upon the ground, sitting with legs crossed, elbows upon knees and leaning closer, trying not to loom, and trying to look smaller than he was. He found his old caretaker routines from an archive, re-installed them, and surprised everyone with the timid chirp that he emitted.

Dana started to chuckle at the looks on the human officers’ faces at hearing the small noise coming from the rather large mech. That gained her a glare from Graham, which didn’t help her laughing any. Walking up fearlessly, she rested her hand upon Faust’s helm and sat herself beside Iris. As a result, she got herself a lapful of careful Sparkling, using soothing tones in her voice to put the little one at ease. “There, luv. No worries. He’s a good mech, yeah?”

“Momma, I think he has to be the _goodest_ mech,” Faust replied softly.

“That’s not a word,” one of the other Sparklings sassed.

“It is if _want_ it to be! Do _you_ know any better words to describe Optimus?”

“Annoying,” a deep voice rumbled from the trailer. “Conniving. Lacin’ ma energon, the jerk.”

“No fragged _way_! Jazz?” Sideswipe leapt over the Sparklings, darted around Optimus, and unhitched the doors of the trailer to peer inside in shock. “OhmysweetPrimus, it’s _you_!”

“An’ Ah’m _stiff_! Smelter take ’em both! Get me outta here, willya?”

“Ratchet issued you that energon, so don’t you dare blame me,” Optimus replied with a laugh, turning to rest his hand upon the trailer, causing the side to fold down again, revealing the silver mech. He fearlessly threw the CMO under the proverbial buss for the sake of sanity.

Snorting, said medic replied with very little venom, “I did it for your own good. You get antsy and you fidget when you can’t see where you’re going. Don’t try to deny it!”

Sideswipe swept the just-barely-smaller mech up into an embrace. “Wait until I tell Sunny that you’re alive! Primus above!”

“Siders, I missed ya! But naw, man. You can’ tell _any_ one,” Jazz thumped the back of his old friend carefully, then caught sight of the little ones. Roughly shoving his way out of the embrace in shock, he stumbled closer, wavering and staring in shock at them before his legs gave out.

Ironhide caught Jazz with a smile, lowering him gently to the ground, having dealt with the small Third in Command so many times before while in a state of mentally being together, but physically about set to fall apart, that he fell into his old routine of “catch the TIC.” It was a shock to see Jazz, that was true, but it was also one less ache his Spark processed. He had carried that broken form through Mission City to Optimus, wept as he walked, openly grieving the loss of the mech whose antics, impressions, and general morale-boosting feats of storytelling and party-throwing had often kept the troops laughing so hard that he, personally, fell over trying to walk, which would only make everyone laugh harder. Those bright spots in the grim bleakness of the war had kept him together far longer than if they _hadn’t_ had Jazz.

Hudson looked up at Sideswipe, then looked to Iris, who had skirted around Optimus as well and was clinging to the mech she had chosen to be _hers_. The others didn’t seem to want to connect to any one mech yet, but _he_ wanted someone. Someone who wasn’t big and scary. Chirping timidly, gently, he made his way over to Jazz. Looking up at hearing an affirming rumble, Hudson crawled up against Jazz’s torso, trilling softly and feeling the panic settle and fade away.

“Well, I’ll be,” Dana said from where she sat with Faust. “That’s the first time I’ve seen him relax since he’s been here.” Looking up at the leader, she tossed a pebble towards one of the Sparkling’s feet, acting the part of Momma to them all, even if she wasn’t seen as a mother by them. “Where are your manners? Faust introduced himself and the two who don’t like talking; shouldn’t you four do the same?”

“I’m Tron!” a light-electric-blue mechling said with a grin, showing his generally good nature, which was combined with the desire to be the first at everything, showing a competitive streak. He, and the other three, had parted on good terms with their caretakers, even if they hadn’t wanted to keep constant contact with them.

“Cobalt,” the solemn mechling said, watching Optimus carefully. He trusted Ironhide, and would trust Ironhide’s leader, but he would see for himself if this leader was worth it. He didn’t like disappointment, and didn’t like being handed off, even though he had taken it well. So he kept walls up between himself and the world around him.

“Fidget,” the other femmling said with a shy smile. Her name was true, since she could barely keep still. But she was a happy child, and took everything in stride. She and Tron would often butt heads, but not as often as Tron and the final Sparkling did.

“Torch,” he said with arrogance. He knew he could get away with _anything_ , but since meeting adults of his own kind, he wasn’t quite so sure of that anymore. Ironhide kept putting him in his place, and he _didn’t_ like that. He didn’t like anyone telling him what to do.

Smiling, Optimus could read all this, and more, from their postures and their Sparks. He turned to look at Jazz, who was focused intensely upon the little mechling that was all but purring as he powered down for recharge on his lap. Returning his attention to the four rather robust Sparklings before him, five if Faust was included, he rumbled, “It is my very deep pleasure to meet all of you. Seeing you alive and well is a great relief to me, and I am going to need your help.”

“Help?” Torch asked. “You?”

“Bratling, your manners,” Ironhide growled, glaring warily at the child, earning him a huff and muttered apology from the child. _:Prime, who are you going to send here?:_

_:Among others, Kup and Prowl.:_

_:Oh good,:_ Ironhide replied with an almost-unholy glee. They were two of the best mechs to keep unruly Sparklings in line.

“Yes. I need your help. In time, there are seven more Sparklings that will come here. And I will need help from everyone to make sure that everyone feels safe and welcomed. I will need every one of you to cooperate with and listen to the adults, your caretakers.”

“Why should we, if our own caretakers abandoned us? Will _you_ do the same?” Torch snarled back, ignoring the dual warning rumble from Ironhide and Sideswipe. He knew that he was pressing his luck, _especially_ of both of them were agreeing that he should watch his mouth and his manners.

Optimus put one hand on the ground and leaned closer to the Sparkling with intensity written over every edge of his armor, every plate that made up his face. “ _Never_. I will _never_ let any single one of you be abandoned. You are the only future our race has left. You are our _children_. I will _not_ let any harm befall any one of you.”

The young mechling took a step back in shock at the words, but he swallowed and nodded, feeling strangely satisfied. And he felt something _else_ , something different, happen, when Optimus reached over and brushed his helm with one large gentle finger, tracing his cheek and giving him a smile. “You don’t have to fear rejection. Or disappointment.” With that, he tipped Cobalt’s chin up, smiling directly into worried optics. Looking to Fidget, he took her small hand in his, murmuring, “You can find peace here, and a home,” he looked to Tron, smiling and brushing his finger over the top of his head, much like a human would ruffle the hair of a child. “If we have to move locations to keep you safe, _not one of you will be left behind._ You will _all_ be with us. And you will all be kept safe. I vow this.” He smiled at Faust, who nodded, then looked over his shoulder to meet the gaze of Iris.

Who blinked, then chirped once.

He chuckled, and replied in kind, reassuring her, affirming her, and calming her further. She settled against Sideswipe’s chest and shoulder with a sigh gusting through her vents, her hand covering the port on the back of her neck briefly before going up to wrap it around one of the mech’s struts, worrying the smooth metal as if to reassure herself that he was still here. Sideswipe smiled. “Hey boss. Know what feels great?”

“Mm?” Optimus replied.

“Humans call it sunbathing. But soaking in the sun here? It’s great for recharging.”

“I was _wondering_ how your backup powerplants were working at that level!” Ratchet exclaimed, then shook his head and crouched by Faust and Dana. “So. You’re the human with bone cancer, yes?”

“I am,” she replied steadily, although Ratchet could see that it took a lot of courage to admit to what she was and what was plaguing her.

“I’d like to have a word with you and your Sparkling, if you both don’t mind.” He had been given a briefing of the situation and the close relationship between Faust and Dana from Sideswipe while Optimus had been speaking with the children.

Faust nodded and stood, helping Dana to her feet. They walked along towards the fields, Ratchet keeping his pace slow while they talked in low tones. Optimus found a space in the sun to stretch out on, feeling decidedly lazy after the trip. He didn’t move when he felt Sparklings come up and begin to explore his frame, exclaiming how _hugenormous_ it was, wondering if _they_ could ever be that big. Smiling, he heard Lennox come up by his shoulder. “Never seen you this relaxed, Big Guy.”

“No Sparklings around. Never had the chance while on base. Nobody likes to see a leader taking down time. And an _alien_ leader taking time off? Well, that’s cause for panic.” Prime smiled at hearing Lennox’s chuckle and explained, “Sparklings bring out the best and the worst in those with caretaker, or creator, subroutines. We fight harder, love deeper, and show the same ferocity and gentleness instincts that human children evoke in adults.”

Nodding his understanding, Lennox took a seat, leaning against Optimus’ frame. “Yeah, but I think that your kind can do a bit more damage when it comes down to defending a child than a human can. Ironhide said that you wouldn’t be able to stay away from here for long. But . . . I didn’t expect to see Jazz so soon.”

“As you know, he’s a bit of a miracle, but like after any bad injury, he needs rehabilitation time.”

Silent for a long moment, both laughed softly as Fidget tumbled off of Optimus’ arm and then chirped in annoyance before making her way back up the offending appendage. Having been around Sparklings for a week, Lennox could see how durable they were designed by the AllSpark and no longer worried about what a fall of several feet could do to them. They might dent or get scratched, but they were able to get up, be annoyed at the superficial damage, then keep going with the same undaunted determination that human toddlers possessed. “I have a couple questions.”

“Should I give you permission to be irritating again?” the Autobot teased, still smiling.

“Depends upon your view of what’s irritating. What’s Ratchet planning to do about Dana?”

Thankfully, Optimus was able to give this information to Lennox, knowing that he, like Banachek, considered secrecy a virtue. “He’s researched the disease, and he’s going to try a holistic approach, primarily using powerful antioxidants in specific and carefully-applied dosage levels. If the first approach does not work, he will be taking a more aggressive stance against her bone cancer.”

“Aggressive being . . . ?”

“She would survive, but the procedure would give her a lifespan rivaling that of my own people. Which is what he’s talking to her about right now, discussing what he is planning to do for her, so long as he has her consent.”

“But, wait.” Will rubbed at his forehead for a moment. “So you’re saying that you have the tech that can _heal cancer_?”

Sighing, not wanting to lie, Optimus replied, “Yes. But we haven’t developed the tech to heal _just_ the cancer and leave the human to live a natural lifespan afterwards. We have not told your governments about our possession of this cure for many more reasons, another of which is that you are close to that level of technology development, and I do not wish to see it turned against another human in a warfare situation. It’s nanite technology that—” Optimus moved suddenly, scruffing Torch and giving him a _look_. “Do _not_ get under my armor. If I have to move, I would be very, _very_ unhappy to have squished a Sparkling.”

Squeaking in shock, Torch curled arms and legs up towards his torso and nodded, then went back to exploring when Optimus settled him upon his windshield. “I’m sorry about that, Lennox.”

“Nope. It’s all good.” The man was grinning at the way that the mechs were handling the Sparklings with ease, almost as if it were nothing new to find the babies and integrate them into their lives. “So when it comes to those nanites, you can’t just remove them?”

“They will be integrated into the body via the immune system, and to remove them would cause an almost-instant relapse of the disease, as well as vulnerability to many other ailments that the body would not have adapted to during the time spent with nanites in-system.” He sighed. “There was once a hive-minded organic race that we did much trade with, several millenia before the war started. They had decided long before we had met them that to continue endless territorial wars would end with less diversity, only one hive of warriors remaining to repopulate their planet.” He paused, not wanting to tell Lennox the sad ending to that tale, or any of the other tales about another alien refugee group that may or may not tell horror stories about the Great War of Cybertron. To say that the battles were as sluggish and tired as the warriors that commanded and fought in them would be to speak the truth. “They made fine products and decorations, jewelry in a different sense of how you know decorations to be, and we had ways of transporting them between the stars with minimum radiation.”

“You gave them nanites.”

“Yes. Which were also helping them with curing their diseases, which had plagued their kind much as cancers and autoimmune disorders plague humanity.”

That was something interesting to learn, and the man knew from seeing Optimus turn his gaze up at the clouds that there was much about this other alien species that he didn’t want to tell. Lennox turned to ask, “So how close in biology are they to us?”

“Were, Major Lennox,” Optimus replied morosely, deep voice deepening with a tired resignation. “Were. The Decepticons wiped out their planet in the opening moves of the war. They would have been our allies, with warrior instincts still deep in their collective psyche, and Megatron didn’t want the odds to be overwhelmingly stacked against him. We lost many friends that day.”

“No survivors?” Will whispered, knowing that he _had_ to see if there were any whom he could count on for possible backup.

And he knew that Optimus saw this, too. “Any survivors kept their heads down and stayed underground on foreign colonies, if there are any. They knew that to reveal themselves, even to allies, would ensure Megatron’s hunt would resume. They knew the value of interrogation of an enemy.”

Shaking his head, the human got back to the subject at hand. “So through your experience with them, you know how to handle _our_ sicknesses.”

“Yes.”

“And you can heal her?”

“Absolutely.”

“When are you going to tell the world?”

“ _Possibly_ tell the world, Will. We do not know if this knowledge, if made public, could harm or hurt the development of your own sciences. When we’re allowed to go public and when I feel that our public presence would do more good than harm, I will reconsider my decision. It will be one of the many gifts we are able to give humans, but certain parts of our tech and our culture will have to remain under the radar until we’re _sure_ that we won’t have to leave your planet. It may be the only home we have left.”

With those mournful words, the duo sat in silence, listening to the giggling and chattering of five Sparklings as they explored the three new mechs, getting themselves teased in return. Two Sparklings remained quiet and restful, wrapping themselves around two silver chests as if to keep four Sparks from extinguishing.

.o.

“Sir.”

“What is it _now_?”

“I have word from my twin. He received the information packet you sent to him through me. Prime has new orders.”

“Slag, that was quick.” Looking up at the golden twin, First Aid blinked once. “These orders better be _good_. And you had better _not_ have hacked them again.”

“They’re open orders, specifically to tell _you_ first to give you time to prepare, then to tell Prowl, since you know he’s currently working with the ‘act now, think later’ mindset of a mech half-unhinged.” He stood against a door with a negligent, arrogant ease, yellow-gold armor gleaming perfectly under the medbay lights.

Tired of the guessing game, First Aid snapped, “Well?”

“Prime wants an advance group to be on Earth _yesterday_. He doesn’t say why, but Ratchet has an addendum to the orders for you, wanting you to bring what you need for fixing Bumblebee, as well as the parts for making two nanite vats. He was decidedly specific that you bring enough for making a vat for organics” Sunstreaker sent the orders via shortwave to the medic, seeing the calm mech blink in shock at the names listed for the landing party. “Well. Good. Did you want to tell Prowl, or will I?”

“ _I_ will do it.”

“Why are you so attentive to him all of a sudden?” First Aid blurted, leaning forward just enough to indicate his interest. As medic, it was his responsibility to keep track of the psychological profiles and statuses of all those aboard this ship. And one thing he knew as _fact_ was that Prowl was not in any shape for any relationship right now. For the sake of Primus, he was still firmly entrenched within the first stage of grief. He and Jazz were inseparable at Spark, and clearly were meant for each other from the moment that they had met. To see Prowl with any other mech went against the grain.

Sighing, Sunstreaker rolled his eyes. “I don’t have to tell you.”

“He’s our _second in command_ and he’s in a _bad place_. His mate is _dead_. And you’re _hitting_ on him?”

“I’m not hitting on him!” Sunstreaker snarled. “Ugghhh, he’s too strict, too perfect. He’s not my type, and he’s older than me by enough that it turns my tanks.”

“Then why _are_ you so interested in him?”

Sighing, glaring at the medic, the frontliner finally growled, “This goes no further than you and your confidential reports. I’m giving him someone to hold onto until he has the strength to stand on his own again. He and Jazz gave me and Sides an _out_ of the arena fights. They gave us a _reason_ to fight, to believe in ourselves an in a cause _worth_ dying for. He was like the brother we never had, and always wanted. I’m doing this because I don’t want to see him follow Jazz. We need him. We need his mind. Everyone knows this. He’s not warm-and-fuzzy, but he’s not Sparkless.”

This was a relief to hear. “He just holds his emotions away from himself to keep from hurting, I know. Primus, I hope you know what you’re doing, Sunny, otherwise we’re screwed.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t plan on giving up on him. Neither does Sideswipe, Bluestreak, Smokescreen, or Ratchet and Optimus. They approve of what I’m doing. Furthermore, Prowl knows that I’m not romantically interested in him. Pits, he probably still views me as a Youngling.” With that, he grabbed a medical-grade cube of energon and left without further words. As he walked down the halls to the offices, he was glad for the friendship he shared with the SIC. That friendship was helping keep that blasted tight-aft alive. Opening a door without knocking, Sunstreaker blinked at the desk. “Where the _slag_ did all those reports come from?”

“They’re old and I’m going through them again. There’s Decepticon activity around the planet the humans call Jupiter, and I want to make sure that we’re not going to interact with any of their routes.”

Grunting, not caring for the planning of things until he was pointed to the front line of battle and told where to help direct it, he pulled the datapad from Prowl’s fingers. When the Praxian snarled in irritation, he held the cube of energon up in almost-white faceplates. “Here. If you’re reduced to being as cultureless as I am and reverting to proto-speech, you need fuel.” As soon as Prowl had downed half the cube, he added, “I have more orders from Prime.”

“What?” Prowl spluttered, startled by the news. “So soon?”

“It’s been a week by Earth time.” Sending the file, he was rewarded by seeing Prowl’s optics flash in surprise and the mutter of “Primus, an advance landing?” But when optic ridges pressed together in a frown, Sunstreaker asked, “What?”

“He wrote this in code.”

“Okay, and that’s not anything I’m able to read, since you know his codes better than anyone.”

“That’s because I helped him create it and am the only one who knows the formula for cracking it.” After a few moments, he pulled the missive up on a wall viewport in its original format of one long line. He stared at the glyphs instead of processing them before arranging it into five lines that varied in length. Then, he pulled three glyphs from the first line, paused, pulled two from the second, three from the third, one from the fourth, and five from the fifth line. Shoving them to one side, he discarded the remainder of the missive and stared at the glyphs, rearranging them swiftly several times over until he found the right combination.

Both stared in shock at the sentence the glyphs spelled out.

“Sparklings on Earth, need you here now.”

Prowl darted out of the door, leaving Sunstreaker to stare at the message for a moment longer before following his commander at their breakneck speed, hearing the orders for the named mechs to meet Prowl in the officer’s lounge for a meeting. His orders would automatically kick out anyone else who was in there. They darted in, seeing Ultra Magnus sitting at the bar casually, off-duty. “I ain’t moving unless you personally tell me to, Prowl. I’m _your_ second in command, and if there’s a change in how this boat runs, I need to know it.”

“Fine. You stay.”

When First Aid, Bluestreak and Kup made it into the room, they looked at odd-couple-type crew that was assembled. Kup sighed. “All right Youngling, why’d you call us?”

Ignoring the term of endearment, since Kup was rumored to be older than Cybertron, twice as canny as his years, and the original Wrecker to boot, Prowl stated, “Kup, Bluestreak, First Aid, Sunstreaker and I will be going to Earth on Prime’s orders. We’re going to go under the radar and be taking as fast a route as possible.”

“Primus above, did he get himself hurt?”

“No, but he wrote his missive in a code he uses only in situations where he needs immediate action.” Pulling it up on screen, he pulled the code out and rearranged the glyphs as he did so, assuring that it made sense the first time around. Staring at the mechs around him, his new brother was the only one not looking at the board. Blue was watching _him_ , assessing him, and then he felt a wave of _comfort-compassion-friendship-affirmation_ from the younger mech, which almost brought him to his knees with how powerful it felt. He shuttered his optics, nodding once, carefully reblocked his emotions and centered himself before addressing the small group again. “Magnus, you’re in charge. We leave as soon as we can, no further than a joor from now. I don’t need to tell you how urgent this is. Dismissed.”

Bluestreak waited for him while the others double-timed it back out the door, Magnus included. After all, Optimus’ little brother had a lot to take care of to ensure that the transition of authority would be handled as smoothly as possible.

He and Bluestreak walked to his quarters, where Prowl picked up the few precious items he carried with him from ship to ship, pausing when his hand reached towards a picture of himself and Jazz, both of them smiling and happy, tangled up in an embrace. The picture was from a Creation Day celebration that they had held for Jazz, a surprise party that had taken orns to organize without the saboteur knowing about it. The date had been just after Jazz had completed his advanced saboteur training with the Enforcers, almost three thousand decavorns before the War started.

Stroking the image, his finger passing over the smiling silver face of his late and quite lamented beloved, Prowl picked the image up and stored it in subspace, feeling Bluestreak’s hand rest upon his shoulder. “I know that I talk too much and I know that I’m not good at keeping my mouth shut, or keeping my feelings to myself, and I’m sorry if I distracted you in the meeting but you looked like you needed it . . .” Drawing in a breath to still his voice and his processor, Bluestreak released it to say, “I’m very glad that you let me and Smokey be your brothers.”

Doorwings trembling with the emotions he tried not to show, Prowl’s face crumbled, and he found himself turning towards the slightly-smaller Praxian, embracing him and shuddering with tearless sobs. “I miss him.”

“I know. Why’d he have to die?” Bluestreak whispered, wrapping his arms around Prowl, glad that he would be able to help keep the emotionally-broken mech protected while they were on Earth. He had looked up to Jazz and Prowl as figures of authority, as well as friends, while they had all served in Iacon. Pit, he and Jazz had even played pranks on Prowl together with the Twins.

“Because he was too damned devoted to the cause,” Prowl ground out between gritted denta. “Too damned devoted to trying to save people.”

“Y-yeah. Sounds like another mech I know. Come on, then. You still have to talk to the crew and tell them where we’re going, otherwise they’re gonna be pissy because they’re going to be missing the party. You know how they are. More than that, did you get all your energon today? Do you know how moody you can get if you don’t get all your energon? I’m sure that you know and that you could even get Primus annoyed with you when you get that moody, and you _know_ that everyone says that Primus’ patience never runs out.” Tugging him towards the door, pausing to look and make sure that Prowl didn’t miss anything, he stopped and pulled down a synth-harp from a shelf. “This was his, wasn’t it?”

“Y-yes.”

“I think he’d want a piece of our culture on Earth, don’t you think?”

In response, Prowl held his hand out for the instrument, wrapping it up in the case from a cubby in the wall, then subspaced it quickly. There were too many memories of Jazz playing that harp publicly, practicing new songs privately, playing that damned harp for him alone, seducing him with that damned harp.

Singing with him to the harp.

Yes. Jazz would want that harp on Earth. Prowl would bury it with Jazz. Raising his head and his doorwings, the Autobot Second in Command strode out of his quarters, seeing Sunstreaker waiting for them, affectionately cuffing Bluestreak’s helm and telling him to get his own stuff and stop worrying about the damned stiff-necked SIC.

And when nobody was looking, Sunstreaker, being Sunstreaker, gently shoved at Prowl’s shoulder, much like how he would to his brother. Prowl smiled, just that little bit, and felt all the stronger for Optimus’ choice of companions for his team.

Maybe he’d even find a Sparkling for his own and name it after Jazz. A Sparkling would help him stay alive, and would help him want to live each day. Maybe that would work.

.o.

_**Updated Author’s Note:** Almost done here, two more chapters to edit. Overall, I added almost a full page to the length of this chapter, and a LOT of details. Keep an eye out for them!_

_**Author’s Note:** Oh my goodness, what is this insanity? 18 pages! Phew! This is waaayyy longer than I had anticipated, but I didn’t want to break it up because of the way that it flows. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the last three chapter titles don’t entirely make much sense . . . unless you’ve Googled them to find out that they’re two of the Top 100 jazz songs of all time. Take a listen to them in various forms and you’ll see why I chose them for those chapters. As for this title, I went for something that would encompass several cultures and musical styles. This song was done by Afro Celt Sound System, off of their Anatomic album, chosen for many reasons, but I’ll let you discover them. Please listen to it as well._

_Thank you for reading, for watching, for reviewing! Each review I get helps me keep the inspiration going, especially if they’re fresh readers giving me their opinion!_


	7. Sparkling Arc 6: East to West, Into the West

Optimus looked up at the late afternoon skies, amused, pleased, and not at all shocked that he had received landing coordinates not long after he had sent the message to Prowl. He, Ironhide and Sideswipe had left Ratchet with Jazz and the Sparklings.

Well, most of the Sparklings.

Iris was settled firmly in Sideswipe’s arms. Over the last day, he had worked out a signal system for her if he needed her to run, run and hide, or to hold on tight. Or to run to Ironhide or Prime, each of whom were large enough to have a Sparkling carrying hold integrated into their frames, and could scoop her up and put her in. They had worked with maneuvers, turning it into a game with all the Sparklings. Even Faust participated, after he asked why they were playing it. He knew it was to memorize who had carrying holds, and who was safe to run to in a fight. And while he knew that’s what they had to do, even _he_ was having fun playing. 

Lennox had been shocked that they were teaching evasive maneuvers as a game to Sparklings, but knew at the same time that this very game could save their lives. So he, Graham and Burke had helped with it, and often had ended up in a puppy pile, gently wrestling with the Sparklings, whose armor was “softer” than the adults, most of it being plastic-based instead of metal. The Autobots found this particularly adorable, but for reasons that they wouldn’t tell anyone about.

“Prowl’s gone paranoid.”

“Hm?” Ironhide asked, looking at Sideswipe curiously.

“He’s taking a route that will lead them halfway around this solar system, when they could come in hot, low, and fast in two days?”

“Puah. That’s not Prowl’s thinking. Red Alert prolly put that into place when Prowl wasn’t lookin’.” The large mech sighed, shaking his head. “Magnus knows how to handle Red; Prowl prolly didn’t wanna have to cut half a day outta his paperwork schedule just to deal with ’im. They’ll be here within six months unless slag hits the fan, watch.” He paused, then shrugged. “Then again, Red’s got a lotta points when it comes to security. Yah never know. They might just settle on Mars and kick the ’Cons offa it.”

“Magnus will do what he needs to do and slag all opposition. He’s as stubborn as I am when he sets a course of action in his mind. Right now, even though we need more warriors, we also need these five more than we need heavy hitters.” Optimus settled himself upon the sand, watching Iris with gentle optics. “How is she doing, Sideswipe? Any changes?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Have you told her that you’re going to keep her?”

Sideswipe gaped at Optimus for a moment, processor half-stalling as he tried to understand the full meaning behind his leader’s words. He could feel Sunstreaker’s sharp concern, knowing that they were again within emoting range if he could feel the shock that was coursing through his frame. Sending a ping saying that everything was all right, he reset his vocoder twice before stuttering, “S-sir?”

Smiling, the leader replied, “She quite obviously trusts you and i>only you. I will _not_ cause that child any more harm than she’s already processed. There are worse choices in my ranks than you and Sunstreaker to raise a Sparkling. _Can_ you raise her? _Can_ you make that commitment to see her through as much of her life as you are able to?”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered when this became an informal adoption ceremony. With that thought, he held a hand up. “Prime . . . I still need to see Sunny about Iris. I _want_ to keep her. I _want_ to have her as my own. But I need to talk to Sunny about her. Because . . . you know that if one of us goes, so does the other unless we’ve Bonded with someone. Which doesn’t seem likely.” Rubbing his hand over his pained, wry expression at the fact that he and his brother didn’t have many prospects for Sparkmates, he felt the serious, darker half of his Spark hiss with the equivalent of an embrace. Swaying on his feet, he caught himself, but not before Ironhide steadied him.

“Kid?”

“Sunny . . . Primus. _Primus_.”

“He’s close?”

“Just about to hit atmo . . . and they’re through it.” Looking up with a bright grin, Sideswipe scanned the skies, soothing Iris instinctively and then pointing up to the five bright spots of light in the sky, chirping the equivalent of “look!” She followed his gaze and his point, staring up at the lights, then squeaking and holding her hands up, as if to try to catch them, wanting to catch them, chittering about “flying light bugs.”

The three adults chuckled and smiled brightly at her antics. It was the first time they’d seen her be exuberant about much of anything. Optimus stood tall, a strong but serene smile upon his faceplates as he watched five of his mechs land around them with thunderous, tank-rattling impacts. Walking slowly, giving them the time to reset impact-addled processors before climbing out of the glass-lined sand craters that they had created, he noted the condition of their exoskeletons and cometary forms. The Prime glanced to his side, at seeing Sideswipe move swiftly towards Sunstreaker. The twins stared at each other for almost a minute, doubtless communicating silently and re-synching their systems to the point where they could act as one mech, as they had been able to do with ease in the past. And then Iris chirped. The golden mech, a frown still upon his face, blinked once at the femmling, then did something that caused Optimus’ Spark to skip a few paces.

He smiled. He smiled _broadly_ , without reservation, without hesitation and leaned in to press his helm to the Sparkling’s, murmuring something softly in Cybertonix. When he pulled away, he looked up at Optimus and spoke clearly in his deep, smooth voice that had sent no few mechs and femmes sighingly into daydreams at wanting to hear it directed privately to them. “We’ll raise her.” It had been so very long since Optimus had heard that voice speak with peace. “Primus help us, we’ll raise the little one somehow.” And he chuckled and leaned down again, stroking her frame with one battle-scarred finger, his entire frame inclining towards Iris.

Smiling at the scene, Optimus turned away, his thoughts still on his frontliner. Of course, after those countless individuals found out how much of a bastard Sunstreaker could be, they would laughingly say that was the point where they started looking to have Sideswipe. They quickly found out that Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were a literal package deal, and unfortunately, left the Twins be. After so many rejections and broken Sparked sobbing on friendly shoulders, the twins had given up on finding any sort of relationship. And then Smokescreen and Bluestreak had finally been transferred to their team. It had taken a lot of string-pulling, bribing and outright blackmailing of Generals and Captains until those two could be pulled into the elite task force that Optimus had very slowly been building over the War. With Blue around them once again as both friend and co-prankster, their own behavior and quirks leveled off to a point where they were no longer sociopathic and volatile.

Nodding once, he looked over to see First Aid and Bluestreak helping an ancient mech not just out of his crater, but also with parts of his transformation. With a nod at hearing their verbal acknowledgements, he strode over to Prowl, crouching and reaching his hand down for his Second and most trusted friend. As the white hand gripped his, he smiled and pulled him to his feet as final transformations settled. Prowl’s deadened gaze met Optimus’ own serious-but-living one, before sliding away in defeat. “I’m not sure what use you can have of a bro—”

“Prowl!” Bluestreak admonished. His normally-jovial and easygoing voice was rippling with a steel that not many witnessed.

“Primus damnit, Prowl, what the slag’ve we been telling you?!” Sunstreaker added, his voice dipping into a dangerous growl.

Bluestreak walked over with concern, Sunstreaker with irritation, both careful not to clip Prowl’s doorwings while Bluestreak latched onto the black-and-white, and Sunny shook his shoulder. “Don’t you dare say ‘broken!’ You want broken? Look at me, look at Sides! Pits, look at any number of mechs and femmes! But we’ve worked past it. You’re _not broken_. Slaggitall, you pain in the aft, you know it, too.”

Optimus hadn’t let go of his friend’s hand. “I must agree with our comrades, Prowl. You may feel as if you are broken, but you have already been through so much . . . there is reason for you to mend yourself one more time on this planet.”

Sideswipe had to forcefully mute himself and hide his face against his . . . _his!_ . . . Sparkling to keep from laughing triumphantly. Walking up to the mech who gave him and his twin a second chance, he rested his hand on the one that was still in Optimus’. He knew that his friendship with the Officer hadn’t changed by the way that Sunny was acting around him. Their long pasts together had given them certain liberties that were never exhibited in the broad public. “Look, Prowl. _Look._ You’re not broken to us. You’re a bit fractured. You’re a lot hurting. But that’s not broken. Broken . . . broken is how you found me and Sunny. Broken is what Blue was before you mentored him.”

Iris cheeped, not understanding the situation, but seeing the hands, and feeling more like herself the more time she spent around Sideswipe, she wriggled, got out of his grasp to run down along his arm and put two hands upon Prowl’s wrist, shocking the mech from his forming argument.

Optimus laughed, his voice deep and happy. “And you’re certainly not broken to the Sparklings. You recall how they view us Adults . . . Sideswipe? Why don’t you introduce her.”

Sunstreaker smiled at his brother, unable to keep the expression back at feeling the Spark-breaking depth of love that Siders had towards Iris. It was the first bubbly emotions that he’d felt in centuries from that damn prankster. Sideswipe caught Prowl’s still-shell-shocked gaze, seeing a seed of life burying itself in them when he formally whispered, “Executive Officer Prowl, I am honored that you are the first mech we are officially introducing our Sparkling to. We present Iris, a femmling who whose Spark shines gently.”

She looked up at her name, then at Prowl when the mech turned his gaze to her. Trilling a greeting after a small nudge from Sideswipe’s finger to her shoulder, she patted his wrist twice with impatient hands, pointing to Sunstreaker. Prowl, not knowing what she wanted, froze when she got impatient and used his and Bluestreak’s frames as a bridge to get to her other caretaker, nuzzling up against his neck, curling herself so close to his golden frame that if she were his same coloration, it would be impossible to see her there.

Venting air cautiously, feeling his processors try to overload and crash, he pressed his free hand to his face, straightening his back, setting his doorwings again, and managing to pull his helm back up. He would try. Primus slaggitall, he would _try_ his hardest. Jazz was gone. The only mech he had ever been attracted to on all levels was now more than likely entertaining Primus. That was an undeniable fact. But Jazz had always lived in the moment. Jazz would have also kicked his tailpipe around Cybertron twice over if he found out that Prowl had been coping with grief by copious ingestion of high grade. So in his memory, in the memory of the Spark that sang to his own, Prowl would do his damnedest to not just survive, but to _live_. He _wouldn’t_ suicide. It was selfish, it was hurtful to those around him, and it was a coward’s way out. He survived his creator’s suicide, but emerged a fractured mech because of it.

“Optimus Prime,” he said in as steady a voice he could muster, “Executive Officer Prowl, reporting as ordered for duty.”

“Welcome home,” Prime replied, clapping his shoulder, glad to see that determination returning. He wasn’t looking forward to the rage that he was sure would be directed towards him when Prowl saw Jazz alive. But he had his answer. Prowl would live, he would function and do his duty, if Jazz were targeted again and killed. “We need to find you all your alternate modes. Prowl, do you still prefer enforcer vehicles?”

“You’ve seen me choose otherwise?”

Several mechs laughed at this dry response, showing a bit of the old Prowl. Both of the commanding officers ignored the slightly-hysterical edge that rode their voices. “Come. There’s a highway nearby that you can choose appropriate vehicles. Twins, may I remind you that you are both to refrain from drag racing unless it’s within sanctioned areas. Utah Salt Flats are one area that you are allowed to race upon, but only so long as you keep away from humans. The government is currently clearing a weekend for us where we’ll only have a handful of NEST officers allowed to supervise our behaviors.”

The assembled mechs brightened with the promise of a place to really stretch their wheels, and that was when Sunstreaker’s main pumps stuttered and almost stalled out at getting a full look at his twin. “Sides, you’re kidding, right? What the _slag_ happened to the paint-job?!”

“C’mon, Sunny, you know that there was no suitable paint until we landed here. _And_ you’re as fussy about my paint as you are your own, so if I showed up in the wrong shade when we were reunited, you’d have my aft on a platter. Repainted and placed artistically, of course.”

Opening his mouth to protest, Sunstreaker sighed and shrugged. “Yeah. You’re right. Fine.”

“As it is, silver is easy to maintain,” Optimus murmured. “And you are identical. I can use that. Sunstreaker, I want your identity to remain a secret from the majority of the humans we are assisting for the time being. I will need you to answer as Sideswipe in some missions, or most missions, if he is going to be with Iris.”

That got a feral grin from the frontliner. “Anything! You need ’Cons downed, I’m your mech.” Apparently, he hadn’t been given enough action in recent vorns to satisfy his vengeance.

“And you will also be expected to help whip another set of twins into shape.”

“Ooh, I don’t envy you _that_ ,” Ironhide said with a deep chuckle.

“They worse than we were?”

“Totally different universe, punk. _Prime_ gets enraged with some of their antics.”

“Great. You guys suck.”

Bluestreak had had enough of the plans and the talking. He sighed and grabbed at Sunstreaker’s hand, along with Prowl’s. “C’mon, I wanna see their vehicles! You said that they’re interesting, right, Prime? So interesting must mean that they’re awesome. I want to see what they have for fast cars. Powerful ones. Don’t you think that powerful ones are better than ones that just look flashy? Not that we _won’t_ have all lights and no combustion, but really, to look powerful is just as important as being powerful, right, Prowl? That’s what you told me a while ago, at least. But what are you thinking of? I’m sure that you’ve got something in mind that’s—Oh wow! She really is a pretty one, isn’t she, Sunstreaker? Iris, was it? Wow. She’s pretty. You’re probably really happy that she’s beautiful, because you love beauty and all—”

“Actually,” Sunstreaker cut in with a chuckle, “I think that no matter what, with the way that Siders loves this little bratling, I think I’d be fine with her Sparkling frame looking a bit worse for wear.”

“A bit worse for wear? That’s like you comparing yourself to _me_ ,” Prowl grumbled.

“Frame-wise, probably,” the frontliner teased as they walked up to a dune, careful not to be seen by any humans passing along the highway. Thankfully, their touchdown had been from the perfect angle that the dunes covered the lower part of their descent.

Kup looked to Optimus. “Good t’ see ya, lad, but you know that Prowl’s about as stable as a newborn turbofox, aye?”

Sighing, the leader nodded, then looked to First Aid and Kup both before encrypting a conversation between himself, them, and Ironhide, shooing Sideswipe towards his brother and Sparkling with a hand before diving into the big part of the news. _:I will not say this aloud, and you will neither of you speak to those three of what I’m about to tell you. There is more than just the discovery of the Sparklings standing as my reason for you five to come to Earth.:_

_:I thought as much,:_ Kup replied, resting his hands on his hips, letting the youngsters have their fun looking through vehicles. Sunstreaker would doubtless take the same form as Sideswipe, unless he found something better and insist that Sideswipe imitate him. But Prowl and Bluestreak would take their time deciding as well. He would have time to find something suitable for his frame and age. _:So what is it?:_

Ironhide grinned broadly, chuckling to himself as Prime looked as smug as a turbofox in a room filled to bursting with all the petrorabbits he could eat. _:The AllSpark was destroyed, but the Shard of the AllSpark still has power. Not the power to create Sparklings, but similar, when combined with the unique properties of the Matrix.:_

Narrowing optics and staring hard at his leader, First Aid ventured, _:What are you saying, Optimus? Who was saved from nearly dying, then? Ratchet? Bumblebee?:_

_:Better. And those two are fine. Jazz agreed to return to this side of the Matrix. He’s alive.:_

Kup stared, then started laughing out loud, slapping his hand on his thigh, careful not to fall over with the force of his mirth. First Aid stared between the smug Prime and gleeful Ironhide, trying to decide whether or not they should be put under psychological watch. There was certainly a problem wrong here if they thought that _Jazz_ had _returned from the dead_. It wasn’t impossible, but it wasn’t _feasible_ in this time! That was a miracle of the Primes Past! So he responded with an apt human phrase. “Bullshit.”

The quartet standing beside the dune stared at the other four mechs with wary curiosity. Prowl sighed, reading the expressions all too well. “Prime’s up to something, Kup obviously agrees with it, Ironhide thinks it was a dumb enough plan that he’d be able to have fun with it, and First Aid wants to put them both into an institution.”

Sideswipe, having been around his leader and weapons teacher for the last week, read their expressions and body language as well. Shrugging, he replied. “Close enough.”

“You know what he’s up to?”

“Not this time. But it looks like it’s gonna be a party by the way Kup’s having trouble cooling himself though his intakes.”

“Primus.” Turning back to the road, Prowl finally saw a law enforcer drive by, and even he sneered with disgust. “What _was_ that?”

“Ford Crown Victoria,” Sideswipe replied with a negligent gesture. “Non-stock engine, though, and reinforced frame. You can do better.”

“Coming from the frontliner whose frame has been scrapped more times than he has fingers left.”

“Ouch, Prowl. Ouch.”

“That was for the marbles prank.”

Snickering, the silver twin grinned and took Iris back as Sunstreaker found a vehicle he found appropriate. Sliding into the sleek style as if he had owned it all his life, he settled on his wheels and ignited his engine with a roar. “Now _that’s_ more like it.”

.o.

Jazz was in a Sparkling-induced heaven. Hudson was the perfect little mech for a guy like him. He was sweet and gentle, not prone to fits of hyper energy, and his presence soothed Jazz’s raw Spark. But he was lacking a kickin’ paint job. So. Because he was still able to hold an airbrush steadily and knew that it would be some time until Optimus returned with reinforcements, Jazz had Hudson standing on a picnic table, arms spread as he repainted the small armor. Other Sparklings were standing around, clearly envious of the detail work that he was putting into the little mechling, but he didn’t mind them. They knew, and they had discussed it between all of them, that it was part of what caretakers do for their Sparklings. Adults would always be there to help Sparklings, but certain levels of the attention to detail would vary.

And Hudson, sweet li’l guy, was all his. “How’s that lookin’ little mech?”

Unlike Iris, Hudson had quickly gotten over his fear of cables with Jazz, primarily because of his desire to _understand_ what was going on around him. So while he didn’t speak much, he understood everything. Turning in a circle when Jazz held a mirror up, able to see all sides because of his small stature, Hudson grinned shyly. He looked _handsome_. Quickly, he transformed, careful not to scrape his new paint while doing so, settling into the large, almost-retro-styled multi-CD player. Chirping questioningly, he entreated Jazz to make sure that all his armor and parts were painted properly.

Grinning, Jazz did just that, hand steady as he finished adding the final few stripes of black onto the small frame. “There ya go, mah mechlin’. All finished. Pop up, an’ I’ll give ya a sealcoatin’ on it, too.”

Gently pulling out of the alt-mode, Hudson squeaked, “I look really handsome?”

“You look stunnin’,” Jazz replied, leaning in and flipping his visor up to smile with his entire Spark behind his expression.

“Will Prowl like me?”

“He’ll _love_ you, an’ not because ya have silver, black an’ white on ya. He’ll love ya ’cause I love ya, and ’cause ya have just th’ kinda Spark he and I need ta raise. Unique, kiddo.” Resting a finger under the small chin, Jazz lifted his child’s gaze to his own. “An’ he’ll love ya simply b’cause ya’re _you_. An’ ya ain’ nobody else.”

Grinning broadly at the affirmation, Hudson nodded and held his arms out again, careful to close all vents against the fumes of the sealcoat material until Jazz was finished and had fanned it off. With a smile, he whispered, “Can’t catch me!” and darted off, laughing. All the Sparkling gave in to the chase, darting around each other in an unruly pack that gave Jazz’s Spark a thrill. Throwing his head back in another deep laugh, he darted around the buildings, careful while around the high-ranking NEST soldiers who had come in to help build the second and third buildings. The new barracks would house the new mechs with Sparklings split evenly between them.

With a laugh, he dug his feet into the gravel of the service road, turning and jumping over the Sparklings, having begun to add more athletic exercises into his rehab routine. He knew Ratchet was watching him and the Sparklings from the sidelines, grinning at the spectacle. Hearing the laughter of his child mingling with the other five shouts, he kept them on a wild chase behind the buildings, keeping the humans entertained with their playfulness while they stopped to eat lunch.

Finally darting back into the “main gathering area” and leading the kids into one round of a figure-eight chase, he felt his legs begin to give out, and with a yelp, made sure that he wasn’t going to squish any Sparklings under his frame as he fell. Thankfully, they were still a few paces behind him, and they tackled him with shouts of glee at catching the small, swift mech. Laughing, he tossed a few around before catching Hudson and nuzzling helms happily with him, murmuring how great of a mechling he was, flopping spread-eagled upon his back and looking “up” at Ratchet, who had been eerily quiet for his fall. Usually Doc Hatchet was snarling at him if he pushed himself to the point of collapse.

That was when he felt his Spark stutter at seeing the face of the mech standing beside the CMO.

“Prowler?”

.o.

“So there’s fourteen Sparklings, and only seven have been brought to this location? That’s not too many for us to handle,” Kup said with a grin. He was in the form of a 1950s antique Chevy tow truck, all smooth curves and pinstriping details. It fit. “Pits, we have enough Adults between mechs and humans to handle up to twenty without gettin’ overwhelmed.”

“Yep. Iris and Hudson are the two quiet ones, Faust is firmly attached to his human caretaker and doesn’t even like answering to any of us adults of his own kind, and the rest are your usual obnoxious brats,” Ironhide said with affection. “You know the breed.”

“Yeah, yeah I do. The kind that make Sideswipe look like an angel.”

“Hey! I _am_ an angel! It was Jazz. I swear. Half of all those pranks? His. Blamed on me. You could tell. He was laughing.” He huffed a laugh, adding, “But they’re good kids, if rowdy. Iris, Hudson and I like to bask in the sunlight, keeping away from the usual mischief.”

“Prankster _and_ lazy,” Prowl replied, almost forcing the words through his com-link. “And a liar. Maybe a third of his pranks were accredited to you because he was careful about alibis. The rest he was laughing about you getting caught. Again.”

_:At least he’s talking about Jazz. At first, he wasn’t doing so good about that,:_ Sunstreaker reported to Optimus. He may act like a complete glitch-head, especially around authority, but he’d been put in his place personally by Optimus, and it only needed to happen once. He didn’t want a repeat performance of that day for the life of him. At least it had been only officers and his twin around for that.

He still didn’t know how Optimus had moved that slagging fast, but knew after he came to that if he ever saw their beloved leader start to throw a punch at him again, he’d _flatten_ himself to the ground and scurry his shiny aft outta there. Of course, he had come to with only Optimus standing over him, giving him a stern, quiet lecture about how things were run under the Autobot banner. And if one was going to act out, one must have a reason for it. So, Optimus gave him a reason.

“Act out if you want, Sunstreaker, but _do not_ challenge me again. I will not hesitate to take you down if you are a threat. And _if_ you wish to continue to act out, and if you gain the friendship of others who grumble about Autobot policies, report them to me. You and your brother want a place, a group to call family, a home.” Those fathomless blue optics turned from the horizon, down to his face, and Sunstreaker would never admit that he had cringed at meeting that gaze. “Jazz, Prowl, Ratchet and Wheeljack gave you that home and I will give you a place to utilize your talents to their fullest. But you are required to follow my rules. Help me, and I will champion you. Hinder me, and you will be finding yourself cleaning things you don’t want to know the functions of for the medics. What is your choice, Sunstreaker?”

That was the beginning of his time as a mole _within_ his faction, part of an intricate web that kept the Autobots running like a smoothly-oiled machine. He would get in trouble intentionally with Prowl just to report something serious happening under the radar. He would help Sideswipe and Jazz with pranks to keep morale up. He and Sideswipe would brew high grade of all sorts for officers when they needed to escape their worries, for wounded soldiers who weren’t sure they were going to live, even though Ratchet was confident of their survival. The high grade had been many things for many mechs. When Praxus fell, they were two of the last mechs who could brew an authentic Praxian high grade; authentic enough to fool three of the few remaining Praxians when they were told to figure out which brew was older.

That was it. He had to build a still with Siders once they were settled. They’d need to keep their old habits going, otherwise mechs would start to think that having a Sparkling attaching herself to them had stalled them out and changed them completely.

Which she would, of course, but not on that level. Their unofficial duties were just as needed as their official ones.

_:Good. Thank you, Sunstreaker, for helping him get through this time.:_

Something about the way that Optimus phrased that was not odd, but _off_. He sent the message to Sideswipe, who blocked memories behind metaphysical titanium doors. Irritated, Sunstreaker revved his engine, but only got a “not now” feeling from his brother, who had Iris in his cabin. Huffing mentally, he sent back to Optimus, _:He saved us, in a different way than you had. He helped us polish our fighting skills that he taught us as Younglings until we are the frontliners that the Autobots, and you, needed.:_

_:And you gave him purpose because he gave you purpose.:_

_:Essentially.:_

_:Good. Now. When are you going to set up some high grade? I’ll know of a few who will need it by tonight. I’ll be mortal and blunt with you when I say that I’ll personally wish for some of your best.:_

_:. . . you really know how to put the pressure on a mech. All we have on us are samples. The Energon still on the ship has Iaconian, Praxian, Simfur and some Tyger Pax brews programmed in, along with all our formulas in hard copy. Our samples aren’t enough to get anyone drunk. If you had told us that we’d need some, I would have brought some. But Prowl almost wiped out the Praxian brew. And we’d stockpiled a lot of that one because of the popularity and the nostalgia of it.:_ Primus, if he kept going on about his secondary passion of brewing, he’d start sounding like Bluestreak!

_:I calculated as much.:_

They fell into silence, moving through traffic smoothly as individuals, not in the pack-like fashion which was nature for them to move in after a lifetime of war. Prowl was following behind Optimus, who was clearly leading them even if it was by the space of a mile, probably catching a stream of updates regarding command chains, current passwords, several faces and names to commit to memory, as well as how to handle certain individuals.

Finally, Optimus indicated where to get off of the highway, waiting until everyone had caught up before pulling out of the abandoned parking lot and taking country roads until they reached the service road to Dana’s ranch. He transformed as soon as they were out of sight of the road, which prompted the rest of the Autobots following him to do the same. Prowl looked around them, then sighed, glad that Bluestreak was able to speak his thoughts for him. “Primus forbid that Red Alert ever come here; he’d glitch at seeing all the unbroken open space. But _wow_ , I’ve never seen anything so beautiful like this world in all of my life, and can you _believe_ this color green? And the _sky_! I’m still not used to it being so opaque . . . and blue.”

And then they were shocked into silence at hearing the shriek of a Sparkling. Bristling instantly with weaponry, they listened carefully as the shriek turned into a line of giggles, which was quickly followed with the sounds of a mech tumbling and leading a chase. Human laughter and shouts of encouragement were mingling with the sounds of play drifting around the two half-finished buildings that would soon house Sparklings and caretakers.

Seeing no threat, Prowl was the first of the new group of Autobots to put his weaponry away. He walked over to Ratchet, who was standing with one of the humans that were part of the command team at NEST. He identified the man as Major William Lennox, a man that was trusted implicitly by Prime and Ironhide. Nodding to the CMO, he opened his mouth to query which other Autobots were slated to be taking care of Sparklings, when the pack burst out between two buildings. A short mech, completely silver, was being chased, and—

Prowl froze. He knew that laugh. He knew that mech.

He couldn’t process anything. He could only watch in horrified, amazed, gleeful silence as Jazz continued to lead the Sparklings in a merry chase, before his legs ceased to function, no doubt due to lingering injuries.

But _Jazz_. . .

Alive?

The Sparklings tumbled onto his frame, which was heaving with the gusting of his air intakes, trying to cool his systems as he laughed and paused fighting off the pack of Sparklings to single one out and . . . and _cuddle_ with him, that unique voice curling its way possessively around the Sparkling, who seemed to thrive at the attention, clearly attached to Jazz.

Who now seemed to be thinking something over. Angling his head so that he could look “up” at Ratchet, the face froze, and the Third in Command seemed just as shocked at seeing Prowl.

“Prowler?”

The blackness of a total processor crash claimed Prowl’s vision and senses.

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Phew! Sorry that this took so long. I had 90% of this written out, then had the weekend hit me, and I didn’t have a chance to do any sitting down. Which wasn’t bad, in all honesty. I enjoyed it immensely, but I just didn’t have any moment to do any writing. Also, this was looking to be another 18-pager, only this time, the flow of things didn’t seem to move quite as smoothly as last time. So here you go! Dunno if I’ll use all of what I chopped out . . . but I have a good 5-page start on the next chapter! Whoo!_

_Thank you, readers, for all your reviews, for your watches, for everything that you’ve been doing! I’m so glad that this story is being enjoyed! Reviews are how I get paid! All your comments give me inspiration to move. If you have any specific questions, please ask away!_

_**Updated Note:** Why is all this edited and updated late? Working 40 hours a week is the answer to that. As I settle into the new schedule, I’ll be able to get everything settled into place for writing again._

_**Songs are:** “East to West” by Enigma & “Into the West” by Annie Lennox_


	8. Sparkling Arc 7: Boombox's Theme

Grunting and carefully clearing his frame of Sparklings, save for Hudson who was clinging to his shoulder, Jazz half-ran, half-stumbled over to where Ratchet was carefully laying Prowl down upon the ground. The old medic was grumbling under his breath about “idiotic processor designs,” among other things that were clearly old grievances about Prowl’s frame design. Optimus walked over, hand going out to steady Jazz as they reached Prowl at quite nearly the same time.

Lennox, who had very casually leapt away from the falling mech, returned with questions. “What the hell is going on here?! He gonna be all right?”

“Yeah,” Jazz replied, calming Hudson, who had startled at the adult falling. “He’s got some ol’ glitches from his processor designs that he couldn’ upgrade outta, an’ will crash if somethin’s too emotional for ’im to process, or too illogical f’r his battle computer, logic centers, an’ central processor to calculate and balance out simultaneously. And that is how most of us operate, only non’a us have as complex a system as Prowl has.”

“So, as an example, him seeing you alive would cause this?”

“That would have hit all three centers with enough illogical and emotional issues for seven mechs, _with_ emotion to spare. Primus forbid that he let his emotions _out_ of the slaggin’ box every so often,” Ratchet grumbled as he tried to plug in and restart Prowl’s processors in a careful succession, only to find that he was firmly locked out. “Slagging idiot!”

“What?” Jazz asked, trying very hard and failing to keep the panic out of his systems. _“What?”_

Ratchet sighed, pulling the cord free and glaring at the prone mech. “He’s changed his codes and failed to update his medical file with them. I can’t get in.” He looked up to see a ring of Autobots carefully giving them room, but all intent at seeing what was going on. Even the Sparklings were hovering around Ironhide’s feet and watching. Picking one face and Spark signature out of the crowd, he called, “Aid! You have his codes?”

“Yes, but he didn’t like me poking around in there whenever he had crashed,” the fledged apprentice replied, walking over and crouching beside Ratchet, holding a data pad out for the CMO to take. “But these are them.”

“Kids, listen up,” Ratchet addressed the Sparklings. “If you ever want a processor as complicated as Prowl’s, you let me know before you get your upgrades. Because I do not like rebooting mechs when they crash, and not every medic can reboot a crashed mech. Do you understand me?”

A chorus of affirmatives met him, but with one glaring exception. As Ratchet slipped into Prowl’s CPU with ease and feeling the Sparkling within the grown mech hold onto his consciousness with panicked, frenzied metaphysical motions, he divided his attention for one moment longer. “Faust?”

“I like thinking big things. I like pushing my processor to capacity. But I don’t like the ache that follows,” the Sparkling admitted, watching the CMO with his steady red gaze, showing a maturity that was well beyond his young years.

“Huh. We’ll talk later, bratling. I have to boot one panicky, annoyed mech before I start thinking about what to do about you.” He dove into the connection, finding the loop of thoughts that was trapping Prowl in his mind and breaking it with practiced ease. _:Looks like you need a bit more help before I bring you completely online again, kiddo.:_

_:How is he alive? He was dead! Confirmed dead! I mourned him! I couldn’t ping him!:_

_:Easy, Prowl. Easy. You’re showing your age, and I know that you like to appear millennia older than you actually are.:_

_:But he’s not dead!:_

_:I know. I was there when he was revived. I helped him come back from the Matrix.:_

_:How-how-how-impossible-how-why-WHY- **WHY** -LIED-TO-ME!:_

_:Necessary lie, kid. I’m sorry. I wish that I hadn’t had to lie to you. I wish that Prime hadn’t made that decision to lie to you. But it was to make sure that you could function if Jazz was killed again.:_

_:What? Why? Are his systems that bad off?:_

_:No, truthfully, his systems are still hovering around seventy-five percent recovered. However, because he is still getting his frame and reflexes back to where they were. Jazz is a target if he’s discovered again. You saw him fall. Prowl, we didn’t tell anyone how he was killed for a reason.:_

_:Tell me. I need to know. I was going to **Bond** with him when I saw him again!:_

For this, Ratchet gave in to his instincts and curled around the trembling presence that was Prowl’s mind, still locked in its panicked mode that only Jazz was able to bring out to the surface and subsequently calm. For now, though, as a former mentor and surrogate caretaker, he was able to work within the SIC’s processors to calm him and help him settle and balance himself out. _:I know, kiddo. I know. Prowl, he was ripped in half. Literally.:_

_:Who. I’ll kill him.:_

The CMO didn’t dare pull away from the coldness that radiated from the mech’s words and presence. _:It was Megatron, and he’s already dead. I checked personally and thoroughly. I tried to save Jazz, kiddo. I really did. But I just . . . I wasn’t fast enough.:_

Prowl seemed to contemplate this, Ratchet having let his own self-anger and hatred of feeling helpless when he _should_ have been fast enough, and he began to finally calm down from the frenzy that was whirling around his mind, bringing him closer to stability. Ratchet, in that time, had began to reset and reboot Prowl’s processors to the point where the SIC could be brought out of the forced shut-down that was now keeping him on the ground.

_:So he’s really alive.:_

Hearing the measured words, feeling the calm settling around the mech, Ratchet replied, _:And sitting next to me and panicking like the mate he is, even if he’s hiding it well enough. I need you to do one thing, though, when you come back online.:_

_:Mm?:_

_:Save chewing Optimus out about this until you’re away from the Sparklings and have a moment of complete privacy. Especially Jazz’s Sparkling. I want your word on this.:_

_:Why?:_

_:Primus, I forgot how difficult you could get. Because the child is scared, Prowl. You fell, you shut down, and the Sparkling needs his caretakers to be Primus Himself. That’s how Sparklings are.:_

_:Primus can die,:_ Prowl snarled bitterly. _:Primus can take his own life.:_

Growling both aloud and within the connection, Ratchet mentally shook the mech before him. _:Your parent did you the severe injustice of suiciding because he was brought back from Primus, only to be driven on by duty alone! He was selfish, he wasn’t thinking of you! All he wanted to do was to return to Primus because the mundane and boring everyday life didn’t challenge his processor the way that battle did! We know this!:_

_:And what’s to say that Jazz won’t do the same?! He knows what Primus’ Bosom feels like! He knows what peace is! You can’t know that he wouldn’t return there!:_

That was the last straw, and Ratchet finally released his legendary temper at the mech he had personally raised, fostering him when the old Tactician had taken his own life. _:Jazz came back because he loves you and needs you! **You** , you slagging slow-processored glitch-mouse! He’s **needed** , he’s **loved** , he’s **wanted** , and while I was in his processors as they came back online, I was watching how much they were focused on all his thoughts and memories of **you**. Not Prime. Not duty. Not helping the humans or keeping morale boosted, all of which came later, after he was conscious. He was focused completely on **you**. Do you understand what I’m saying?:_

It took a moment, and then Prowl nudged at Ratchet in his mind, a clear indicator that he wanted privacy again, and was stable enough to recognize that he was an adult who had need of privacy. _:I need to know for myself. And I will not put my fist through Prime’s processor when I come back online, much as he deserves it for hiding all this from me.:_

That was as close of a vow that Ratchet was going to get, and in recognizing it he withdrew from Prowl’s processors, onlining them completely and unlocking his frame last, making sure that he wouldn’t lash out first and ask questions later, giving him time to identify the mechs around him before he settled his optics on Jazz’s worried face.

With a soft cry, one barely heard above the sound of his mechanics and hydraulics, he sat up and pulled Jazz close. He pressed his face against the silver mech’s, shaking and whispering the original Cybertronian designation of his lover over and over, doorwings drooping completely along his back to rest on the ground. He clutched at the still-scarred armor of his co-officer, his best friend, his lover, never wanting to let him go.

Bluestreak was trying his best not to keen in happy sobs as he felt Prowl’s unfettered emotions through the sibling bond. He knew that until Prowl was completely back in his own mind and settled from recovering from the crash, he’d get the overflow of all the emotions from the officer’s Spark. This had happened before, when First Aid had to reboot him after he found out that Jazz was dead. That time, though, both Bluestreak and Smokescreen were there to shoulder the weight of the unfettered, and quite frankly, rather startlingly _deep_ emotions that emitted from Prowl. The mech felt arms belonging to two separate mechs rest around his waist and his shoulders, and he relaxed between the twins in a show of trust, letting his head hang just enough that he could hide his expression of pure relief at not having to deal with Prowl’s emotions all on his lonesome. He may be only a couple centuries older than Bumblebee, but that wasn’t enough time to give him the full maturity to handle the stress of supporting an unstable mech’s emotions. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker squeezed him gently, hands resting just under trembling doorwings.

“Hey, Prowler,” Jazz whispered in Cybertronian, his voice shaking, trembling and trying to show strength. “I’m home. Welcome home.”

Pulling back just enough to glare at his mate, Prowl hissed in a dialect of their long-dead world, “Don’t you _ever_ die before I do! I can’t do this a second time!”

Jazz replied in the same high-class Praxian song-tones. “I won’t. But don’ expect me to out-live ya by much longer, either. My Spark ain’t that strong.”

“Pitfires. Says the dead mech.”

“Mm-hm. Gonna kiss me ‘hello’ in front of a human, too?”

The ridiculousness of the statement startled a laugh out of Prowl, and before he knew it, he was doubled over, laughing. Nobody mentioned or shuttered an optic at the almost-hysterical edge that it had, even if everyone saw how Jazz leaned closer, one arm curled protectively around Hudson, who was watching Prowl curiously with compassion upon his young face. Smiling, the smaller and marginally-older mech stroked Prowl’s face with infinite gentleness, moving his hand to rest upon one shoulder before he stroked it down the arm and took his hand. “Hey. Prowler.”

Controlling himself, vents heaving and looking around to see everyone watching them with smiles, with sympathetic looks, and with curiosity in the case of the Sparklings and humans, Prowl released his gaze so that it could rest upon Jazz, sighing with relief at seeing the optics, not the visor. “Yes?”

“Meet Hudson. Our Sparkling.”

And he then had himself an armful of Sparkling, who stared at him for one long moment before chirping adorably and cuddling closer to his chassis, sighing. The little mechling’s voice drifted up to curl around his audios, capturing him as completely as Jazz’s voice had all those millennia ago. “Your Spark is as warm as Jazz’s. I knew that Sideswipe wasn’t telling the truth when he said you didn’t have emotions.” Hudson turned his small face against the armor, sighing happily.

With a smile, Prowl whispered, “I get to stay here with them?”

Optimus crouched, but had his Serious Face on, the one he used for assigning serious missions. “Prowl. You are to remain with a hand-picked crew of caretakers which will consist of both Autobots and humans. Your mission, your duty here, is to raise fourteen Sparklings with their assistance. Among those I have chosen is Jazz. And if you two are to Bond, I believe I’m speaking for everyone in saying, ‘hurry it the slag up!’”

“Prime.”

Grinning like the mischievous mech he secretly was, Optimus answered, “Yes, Prowl?”

“Get your aft out of my personal affairs or I will personally remove it and volunteer you for being my exclusive sparring partner for the next hundred years.”

Jazz’s purring Cybertronian laugh was intentional, and the sound of it sent a thrill up Prowl’s spine, reminding him of all the times where that laugh had lead to a smile, to getting out of trouble, to . . . other things. Such things that humans would probably rather not witness, considering that they believed Cybertronians to be _entirely_ genderless. Looking down at the Sparkling again, catching the faint whiff of fresh fumes, he murmured in Praxian once again, “You repainted him to look like us.”

“Well, human kids look like their parents. Why not have _our_ Sparklings look like us?” Jazz replied in Old Polyhex.

Sparklings. More than one. Prowl smiled, enjoying the sound of that, even if a section of his Spark was shuddering with dismay. How could he say that, if he could die and never return to them? What if Jazz couldn’t handle having more than one Sparkling, and . . . left?

A small, hesitant voice asked after Jazz’s reasoning, “Do . . . do you like me, Prowl?”

The mech in question lifted the Sparkling up to optic-level, stroking his small helm with a gentle finger, shoving all thoughts of Jazz leaving to one side. Nodding seriously, Prowl replied, “I like you very much, little one. Jazz loves you; why shouldn’t I? Because Jazz loves you, that’s reason enough for _everyone_ to love you, but that’s my personal opinion. Jazz is special to me.”

“Damn. I went from ‘Bond-worthy’ to ‘special’ in a year’s time? Slag, I ain’t felt this demoted since I failed my first mission.”

“Yes, well, you died.”

“Ouch.”

Sideswipe chuckled before catcalling in Cybertronix, “Keep the flirting until small optics aren’t watching! Nobody wants the mental image of you two foreplayin’ it up!”

Amid a chorus of groans and protests that nobody wanted to think of those two getting playful, in such a manner, Prowl stood and held Hudson to his chest while he strode over to Sideswipe. The mech in question held Iris up in front of him, grinning from around the Sparkling’s giggling form as she curled her legs up cutely and let her optics look several times bigger than they were in actuality. Of course she thought it was a game. She was Sideswipe’s get, no matter the manner in which she was Sparked. Prowl grumbled under his breath and turned back around to help Jazz up. “Ratchet, I’ll need downloads and all prior status updates of Jazz’s condition if I’m going to be around here for very long.”

“Now I’m a charity case! Whoo! I’m moving up in the world!”

Kup smiled, watching the duo move slowly to a sunny hill with their Sparkling, knowing that while there would be a celebration at some point, right now it was about focusing on the moment, focusing on what to do next. So he looked at the Sparklings gathering around Ironhide’s ankles. Crouching down, he settled his hands upon his knees, coming closer to their level, addressing them. “Well, looks like you haven’t been learning manners very well. I haven’t heard one Sparkling introduce themselves to us!”

“But adults are supposed to introduce themselves first!” Torch protested haughtily. “We’re Sparklings and _special_.”

Kup leveled a _look_ at the Sparkling, one that had Bluestreak hiding a grin behind his hand as he remembered that same _look_ given to him whenever he had mouthed off. It held equal parts annoyance and disappointment, and when directed towards the child in question, it often got the same results. “And you heard this, _where_?”

“Uh . . . Optimus?”

So Kup interpreted the statement in a fashion that would get the best results, showing how often he had dealt with Sparklings. “Oh? That so. Lad! Have you been teaching the littles not to introduce themselves?”

“Never in a thousand years would I teach them such behavior; you and Ratchet were two mechs who personally trained bad behavior and manners out of me, if I’m remembering correctly.” He turned to look at the twins and Bluestreak, who were starting to splinter off and away from the main group, needing time to catch up. He spied Iris being transferred from the silver twin to his golden counterpart. Kup stayed with the group, while Ratchet and First Aid moved away to start talking about pressing medical matters. So it was just him, Kup, and Ironhide still with the Sparklings.

He settled himself down. After all, he knew that Kup was famous for his stories. Why couldn’t he, as an adult, start to look at the stories and history lessons from an adult perspective for the first time in his life?

After, of course, Torch had been gently but firmly put in his place, and this time, it was looking like the lesson stuck to the little Spark. Kup certainly had a gift.

.o.

Epps rode in Jolt’s back seat, bookended by two Sparklings who had all but glued themselves to his sides. He had one arm around each warm body, soothing them as much as he possibly could with gentle tones. Jolt, who obviously had never been around Sparklings before, was helping as much as he could, whistling and chirping what small language he remembered from his Sparkling days. Finally, Leafy, then Toast, fell asleep against him. He relaxed further into the back seat with a sigh. “Man, my own girls aren’t this hard to put to sleep.”

“Ill timing, then.”

“Oh?”

“We’re here.”

Muttering obscenities under his breath, Bobby Epps sighed and stroked the small helms as they pulled into the driveway, then down and around to the back. He blinked at seeing so many new mechs sitting under the flood lights, then asked, “Did you know that we were getting reinforcements?”

“Nope. This . . . holy Primus Himself. Out. Out!” His yell startled the Sparklings awake, and when Epps had difficulty getting out of the small car with the two clinging to him, Jolt partially transformed so that he could get out and stand with one small child in each arm. “Jazz!”

“Jolt? Slag, man, how’s it been?” the pleasantly-tired, familiar and deep voice replied.

Epps stared long and hard at the mech he thought was dead, _seen_ as freshly dead in torn in half with fluids still leaking from his frame, then turned his attention to the larger mech beside him that was all but curled around the silver form, as if protecting him from something. Blinking to Lennox, who shrugged and indicated that they were a couple with a subtle gesture, the large black man turned to look at Ratchet. “So where are the other little terrors?”

“Sleeping, as all good Sparkling should be at this hour. Primus, where did you find _these_ two? Under a bridge?”

“More maltreated Sparklings?” Optimus growled. It made Epps real glad that he hadn’t been the one to get the mech angry. He and Optimus respected each other, and both had the same intolerance for bureaucrats, sycophants, and people who were more interested in their oversized paychecks and making others do the hard work for them.

“Not as such. The people in charge of Leafy here, and yes, I think we should change their names to something a bit more respectable, had been keeping him in a barn. The other people had been living in the barn with the other Sparkling. Their house had been condemned, but the barn hadn’t been.”

“I’ll kill ’em.”

“Easy, big guy,” Lennox warned Ironhide, patting a black plate of armor roughly by human standards.

The Sparklings clung to Epps as Ratchet reached over to rest two fingers along each small back, getting readings of their systems with only a few small scans. “Well, they need a good refuel, the language packs, and a defrag followed by forced medical recharge, but aside from that and from being scared little fraggers, they’re not that bad off.” Chittering in Sparkling-speak, he got their attention, holding out treats for them both, teasing them away from Epps. “What were their names?”

“Leafy and Toast. I’m not kidding, either.” He stood still, not moving towards or away from Ratchet, making the kids make this decision.

“Hm.” Taking a moment to pause once they were close enough that he could scoop them up, Ratchet did so, settling and holding one in each arm, letting them seize the treats, showing them that curling close to a mech’s torso wasn’t anything to be afraid of. With a sigh, he felt one of them settle into recharge, the other one settling and warily looking out. Their names were quite obviously derived from their armor color. Leafy was green, Toast was a golden brown. Leafy was currently clicking in his sleep, the equivalent of snoring.

The sound drew smiles from the tired mechs sitting around them. Kup, who had a pair of Sparklings asleep on his lap and a third draped over his thigh, was grinning. “I remember when you clicked in your sleep, Ratchet.”

“I remember _Prime_ clicking in his sleep.”

“I can top that.”

“Dare you.”

“I remember Sentinel Prime as a two-day-old Sparkling clicking and fussing in his sleep.”

So Ratchet ignored being one-upped and kindly laughed at in order to synch up with the sleeping Sparkling first, implementing the language packs, activating them and setting them up beside the Cybertronian languages so that cross-referencing wasn’t going to be a problem. He then found that the Sparkling didn’t like the short name of Leafy. So with a smile, Ratchet tagged various words having to do with the color green for the Sparkling to look at, with a note in English stating that he had an entire two languages to choose a name from, and to choose two, one in each, was also acceptable because of the two peoples that he would be interacting with. During this time, half of the remaining mechs had drifted into recharge, finally able to relax around trusted friends.

All while Ratchet worked, he was gently stroking the awake Sparkling’s shoulder and back, reminded of the times that he had done this with Youngling twins, who still caused him enough grief that would flatten and break a lesser mech. Thankfully, these two didn’t seem to have the same phobia about hardline upgrades as Iris did, and “Toast” willingly turned so that its port was revealed. Smiling, Ratchet moved swiftly, handing the Sparkling another treat when he was through. “Well, you’re well behaved for a skittish little creature.”

“Humans scare me. But you don’t. Because you’re a bigger me.”

By the pitch and cadence of the little voice, Ratchet could see that this one would be a femme. “Hm. And what name did you wish to choose, little one?” His question was punctuated by Prime’s vents sticking before blasting open in a “cough,” indicating that it was time for another cleaning. Primus forbid that their leader ever let anyone but Ratchet or his Sparkmate to help him clean off.

Glaring at the recharging mech, who had merely shifted in his sprawled-out slumber, Ratchet shook his head, hearing Ironhide say, “At least he feels at ease enough to go into a full defrag while we’re here.”

“I blame it on the officers,” Sunstreaker said with a grin from where he was lounging, his golden frame catching and reflecting the light from the fire that the humans had lit and settled around.

“Funny, I blame it on the frontliners and the Autobot’s best slaggin’ sniper bein’ ’round,” Jazz said with a grin, stretching his legs out before settling back against Prowl again, entangling his hand with his lover’s, one arm curled around the sleeping Hudson.

Ratchet shook his head, looking down at “Toast,” his optics quirking up to indicated that he was still waiting for her answer.

“I like Sepia.”

Researching the word and connotations, Ratchet smiled and nodded. “It’s a good name. Now, I think that it’s time that a certain Sparkling went to sleep.”

“I wanna stay with the brown man!” Sepia burst out, looking as if she were about to panic. 

Ratchet stroked the side of her face with a gentle fingertip. He frowned slightly, voicing his thoughts. “You said, though, that you were afraid of humans. Why do you want to stay with Epps, the man who brought you here?”

“B-because he’s nice! He’s not like the mean people. He’s . . . he’s _nice_ ,” she reiterated, curling her legs up and fidgeting with her hands.

Epps, meanwhile, had been walking closer to the Sparkling, smiling. He brushed his hand over her arm, getting a startled glance before she settled down. “I’d be real honored if you really do feel safe around me.”

“Can you take care of me?” she blurted.

Smiling gently, if sadly, Epps shook his head. “Naw, hun, but I wish that I could. You’re a real cutie, and you’re a real sweet little girl, but I’m a soldier, and my wife and kids back home know that I have to do my job. I have to fight so that you, the other Sparklings, and my own people, humans, are safe.”

“Even the mean humans?”

“Them, too. Just ’cause they ain’t nice don’ mean that they ain’ worth protectin’.” He smiled and brushed his hand over her helm again. “But I can visit you. Do you understand what ‘uncles’ are, for humans?”

“The brother of a caretaker,” Sepia replied softly, optics brightening. “So you’d be family!”

“Yep!” It was hard not to grin when any of the Sparklings were grinning. “Absolutely. Now let’s let Ratchet rest, huh? C’mon, time to settle down for the night.”

“Nightmares . . .”

“If you trust me, I can take care of those,” Ratchet murmured.

“Mmkay. Cord?”

Nodding, Ratchet plugged in, accessed a few medical-only files until the Sparkling was upgraded to a second-stage Youngling, almost adult, and started a defrag cycle that would finalize in a deep recharge. At seeing the Sparkling power down, one hand having threaded its way into Epps’, Ratchet chuckled. “Well, I’d forgotten how clingy these children are. Go on, pick her up and keep her close. Primus knows that you’re the first step she’s going to have towards trusting humans.”

Sideswipe rested his chin on Sunstreaker’s hip from behind his brother, looking over his mirror-image frame at the relaxed scene. Mechs and humans resting, Sparklings laid out on mech’s laps, and no fewer than three on Prime’s chest. He looked at the sick woman, Dana, seeing how she rested against Ratchet’s free leg, Faust watching her worriedly before her hand stroked his face, soothing him. He felt his twin’s curiosity, which he answered with a data packet regarding her medical condition.

_~Sides . . . she’s going to die if Ratchet doesn’t help her.~_

_~I know. And he wants to, but because of the way that humans are fussy about being experiments and all, his hands may ultimately be bound.~_

There was a long moment between them as they watched Faust settle into a recharge, his head on Dana’s thigh and his arm wrapped around her waist, hearing but not listening to the talk that swirled gently around them. Iris shifted in her sleep, whirring once before settling again in Sideswipe’s arms. Sunstreaker looked through his twin’s gaze as Sideswipe looked down at the child. Smiling, the duo felt comfortable around this small group of their ranking officers. Most of them had personally mentored them through some rough times while they integrated themselves into the Autobot forces.

_~I want to help them, Sunny. Prime and his officers are really . . . they’re weary. They’re more tired of this war than we are. You can almost feel the exhaustion radiating from them, and for Optimus to actually be recharging?~_

_~I know. Yeah, let’s help. I don’t mind playing at being you, and I’d like to be backing Prime up for a while. Magnus was a good mech, but he’s not his brother, and he doesn’t know how best to handle how we operate as frontliners.~_

_~Point us where we have to go, and don’t tell us how to do our job. He’s still micromanaging?~_

_~Yep. He’s afraid of his decisions ending in a death.~_

_~Glad that you’re here, then. Humans understand the “point them and run away” rule, and aren’t afraid to ask us for help when they have a problem.~_

Sunstreaker twisted a hair, then grinned to someone behind them. Sideswipe felt Bluestreak settle by his legs, leaning on him to look down at Iris with a smile before he sprawled out behind them, draping arms and upper torso over Sideswipe’s legs. The sound of metal clanging and settling caused the humans pause from their conversations, looking at the trio curiously, then with slight trepidation.

_~I think they might want an explanation, Sunny.~_

_~Slaggit. You do it.~_

_~Why me? You came with Blue!~_

_~You’ve known the humans longer.~_

_~Ugh. Fine.~_ He looked around at the humans who were now really taking notice of where he was resting his head on his brother, as well as Bluestreak all but blanketing his legs. Venting air, he asked, “Yes?”

Epps and Lennox shrugged, as did Dana. But Graham and Burke both were watching them curiously, along with the few others from the NEST command crew that had been called in to help with construction. It seemed as if they were wondering how rude it would be to ask what was going on between the twins and Bluestreak. Ratchet sighed, then sent them a small directive. _:You can tell them the broad strokes, but I do **not** want them to know how Sparks work. As much as we trust Lennox and Epps, we still don’t know how trustworthy all of their comrades are. If either of those two decide to start asking questions, you can answer them, but **privately**. Do you understand?:_

After the twins had replied favorably, Sideswipe said, “Sunstreaker and I share one Spark, and are as close to what you call twins as our species can get. Our Spark, what you could call our soul, split apart upon activation. We were supposed to be one mech, but fate had other plans.”

“So you’re actual twins?” Epps asked softly, knowing that Cybertronian hearing was sharp enough to catch his words.

“Spark-split twins, yes. Different than Skids and Mudflap, who may be close to identical in frame and temperament . . . hm. Think of it in terms of identical twins versus fraternal twins.” Sideswipe felt Sunstreaker’s “nudge” and moved just enough that he could pass their Sparkling over to his twin, careful not to dislodge Bluestreak. The sniper was following the conversation, but who was also close enough to recharge that his optics were dimming. “We can operate as one consciousness, but it’s stressful and we’re used to being two separate entities.”

Sunstreaker settled the Sparkling with infinite gentleness, giving Sideswipe a moment to seize on the next topic. “And now you’re wondering what’s the deal with us and Bluestreak.”

That got the gunner’s attention, and he blinked, coming back to full wakefulness to watch the twins, who hadn’t moved from their comfortable lounging with each other. He knew that Sideswipe was going to draw this out to annoy the humans a little, and that’s exactly what the usually-red twin did. Finally, one of the men asked, “Well?”

Sunstreaker looked over at Bluestreak before he answered instead of his twin. “He’s our best friend, and we trust him to cover our afts in battle. Hell, I trust him to target millimeters away from my Spark.”

“Which has happened,” Bluestreak said. “I’m the best sniper that the Autobots have, and while I know that I talk a lot when I’m not on the field or doing my job, I’ve never been located, I’ve never taken damage while covering and sniping and I certainly never make mistakes. There’s too much at risk for me to make a mistake and if I slip up, people die. I mean, they die anyway, but people that I’m protecting and keeping safe will die, and those people are usually officers, so that’s not something that anybody wants to risk, you know?” He blinked, then grinned, glad that he was able to talk himself out without being cut off by someone. Then again, most of the people who told him to shut up were of the usual infantry and didn’t know the reasons behind the babbling.

Sideswipe thumped his side twice with a light fist. “And you’re the reason why Ratchet’s sitting here, not dead. Same for Prowl. And us. And Prime. Most of us several times over. Which is why you’re also here for the Sparklings, I’m guessing. You, out of all of us, have saved the most lives with your actions. And you’re the best mech to keep the kids safe . . . _and_ you’re due for some magnificent R’n’R under glorious blue skies, Primus-gifted sunsets, and with Sparklings to make you smile again.”

_:Start talking like that and I’ll start flirting back, regardless of orders,:_ Bluestreak replied, shaking his head and relaxing again. “Man, I missed you being around.”

“If they’re identical, how can you miss them?” Lennox asked, curiosity causing him to lean forward, watching the trio’s movements.

“We’re not identical in personalities,” Sunstreaker said, stroking the face of the little Sparkling in his arms, committing her to memory all over again. Primus, what a gift!

“You seem it, though. At least right now.”

“Hm. Try taking your personality and splitting it in half, then take the extremes of your personality, the good and bad, and have them exaggerated,” Ratchet replied before the Twins could. “They’ve mellowed out over the millennia, but they’re still polar opposites.”

“How?”

“I’m a prankster. Mischievous. Always ready to please and always ready to get a laugh. Always wanting to have fun.”

“I used to be a sociopath. I still have a temper. Don’t scratch my paint and I don’t scratch yours. I’m picky about paint jobs. I’m an artist. I’m not as happy as Sideswipe, but I can experience his happiness and feel it as my own.”

“Likewise, I can feel his anger as my own, and I can get really angry, but never as angry as Sunstreaker. We’re both creative, but express it in different ways.”

“We both enjoy causing Prowl grief.”

“Don’t remind me,” the mech grouched from the other side of the fire, Jazz now firmly in recharge in his arms.

“Okay, so if you guys are all friends,” that same nameless man asked, “then what does that make those two?”

“Best friends,” Prowl said firmly, as if anticipating that a human was going to shove his nose into his relationship. Epps and Lennox were good to know the truth regarding their kind, but they _had_ to remain as sexless as possible. Humans just weren’t ready to know that they had complex, loving, meaningful relationships. “I have known Jazz almost as long as I’ve known Ratchet, and he half-raised me.”

“So he’s like a brother?”

“No. Twins are brothers, and those raised together by one mentor are siblings. Jazz is a friend. He was raised by caretakers in the same building complex that Ratchet resided within. We were introduced, got along, and did our best to remain friends even though we drove each other crazy because of our opposite natures.”

“No truer words were spoken,” Ratchet murmured, shaking his head. “Right. Humans, it’s midnight. Half of our mechs are in recharge, the other half should be in recharge, and we’re taking the Sparklings to the brook tomorrow to keep them out of the way of the heavy machinery that will be settling the foundations for the new buildings.”

“Which is also out of sight of the mundane humans,” Dana added. “I’ll be joining you later, and Faust will be going with you in the morning. I’ll need a ride, since I can’t ride the horses anymore.”

“I’m sure that will be taken care of without much of a problem. So, get to bed. If you’re sitting a watch, check in with me. Prime needs some time with the Sparklings and Prowl will be on leave to rest for the next two days—”

“Slag off,” the black and white growled.

“I’m CMO. I’m pulling rank. And you slaggin’ need the recharge and relaxation, so don’t you start getting huffy with me, kiddo.”

“Prowl, listen to him, please?” Bluestreak said softly, entreating his “brother” through the bond they shared. _:He’s right. You’re still looking a bit frazzled, and two days will do enough to take that edge off. You also crashed today, and Ratchet always made you take time off to recover from a crash. Two days isn’t that long. Please listen to him, Prowl. You need the time.:_

_:If I have that much time, I’ll think too much,:_ Prowl replied.

_:You know that you can always overflow on me. I know what it’s like to need to vent emotions and feelings and frustrations and not wanting to think . . . because then I remember all the mechs that I’ve killed to keep others safe.:_

“Fine,” the Autobot second in command grunted.

“Three days off it is.”

“What?!”

“I heard three days,” Sideswipe said, grinning and elbowing his brother. “Didn’t you, Sunny?”

“Stop calling me that. And yes. Three days. You sure it wasn’t four, Ironhide?” he passed the metaphorical ball to the older mech with ease.

“Nope. Three,” Ironhide said with a chuckle, looking to his human friend. “You head three, right, Lennox?”

“Absolutely, big guy. Three days. Starting tomorrow morning, right, Ratchet?”

“Primus, even the _humans ___are conspiring against me!”

“It’s because we already care about you,” Dana said with a smile. Somehow, that smile warmed Prowl’s Spark, even though it was the smile of a being at peace with her ending. And yet, it was that peace with the fact that she may yet die but was going to enjoy every living moment; it was _exactly_ the balm that Prowl needed for the pain he felt in his Spark. Venting air, he nodded his thanks before settling his back against the oak tree behind him, the width perfect to support his and Jazz’s combined weight, and just wide enough for his doorwings to rest against. Jazz shifted in his slumber to lean against Prowl’s frame just a bit more, and with Hudson in his carrying hold, the larger Autobot felt recharge calling him gently.

So he rested his chin upon chest, and let himself power down, arms tightening around his Jazz.

He would rest.

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Well, that’s it for the first arc of this story. I have the second arc in my head as a nebulous cloud for the moment, but it’s also going to be a little more light-hearted than this one while I figure out what to do with the Sparklings. So I’ll be generally taking a break from the military mechs while I work on what to do. They’ll still be mentioned and will still be around, but there’ll be a chance for me to hit on another lose end from the introduction chapter._

_And I just remembered something. Bee ruthlessly destroyed the Kitchen-bots in TF2. I’ll have to figure out a way to justify that, considering what I’ve come to say about Sparklings in this fic._

_Is anyone actually listening to the songs I’m suggesting, or should I just stop listing them?_

_In case anyone is listening to the songs, here’s this chapter’s theme:  
Boombox’s Theme by Tony Bacala_

_**Updated Author’s Note:** Right. So that’s the first Arc completely edited. Thank you for your patience! I hope that some things have cleared up, and that completely **new** questions have been raised!_


	9. Designs Arc 1: Anthem

Judy Witwicky has always been an unstoppable force of nature. While she didn’t force Sam to keep a pristine room, at the very least it had to be in organized disorderly chaos. She knew that he had magazines of dubious content hiding under his bed, for instance. She knew what those items were and that there were at least three volumes. She and Ron knew not to address the existence of said items, and always knocked when entering her son’s room as of his ascent into puberty.

On this day, however, she was taking a stance upon something quite a bit out of the norm for a teenage boy.

She stood in front of the Camaro, hands on hips, and imagined that she was having a show-down with the blue-eyed robot. Sam was inside working on a school assignment on this glorious Friday afternoon, and wasn’t remotely aware that Judy was already home. That, or he and Mikayla were off doing something that she would barge in on as a tactic to prevent them from getting too frisky in _her_ house. They were still kids. When Sam got his own place or left for college, he could make his own rules there. So she stared at the Camaro. “All right, mister, I want to see your eyes.”

Judy was given a low groan.

“No whining! Come on, up, do whatever it is that you do. We need to have a talk. Or, at least, something that might vaguely resemble a talk. By the way, is Mikki here?”

Something beeped to her right, and she found an iPad charging on a shelf. “Huh. Where’d Sam get this?” Walking over to it, Judy heard the sound of the dizzying transformation behind her, knowing that the Autobot wouldn’t dare harm her. So she picked the iPad up as it beeped again. Two answers were on the screen.

_Mikayla is currently at her shop, working on a project for her junior portfolio. Sam is doing the same in his room._ That was followed by, _This isn’t Sam’s. It’s my datapad for communication uses. We decided that we would go with a human device that wouldn’t look anything out of the ordinary to decrease suspicion. I’m sure you can understand how frustrating it is to search through millions of songs and sound clips just to get the words I’m looking for._

She blinked, unplugged the pad and turned to look up at kind optics. “You know, you’re still intimidating, no matter how cute you can make yourself look.”

Doorwings lifting upwards as Bee’s optics turned up in a smile, he ducked his head and curled himself a bit closer, the iPad beeping with the simultaneous incoming message. _Sorry. I’d hate to see what you’d think of Optimus or Ironhide. They’re two of the biggest Autobots._

“You’ve shown me those hologram-things, of them, right? He’s about twice your height?”

_Somewhere around that height. But you said you wanted to have a talk with me, Mrs. Witwicky. What can I help you with?_

The woman took a moment to gather her thoughts, showing that even though she could be the embarrassing mother that no teenage boy wanted to have, she was also a bright enough woman to know how to play a part. Judy settled on, “How well is Sam taking care of you?”

That seemed to catch the mech off-guard, and he blinked before tilting his head to one side. _I’m not sure I understand what you mean by that._

“Well, to all appearances, you’re his car. How well is he taking care of you?” She shook her head. “Car wash, wax, making sure that upholstery is cleaned and vacuumed?”

_Oh! Hm. That’s actually a bit of a role-reversal, considering that it’s my job to keep him safe and in working order, in a way of putting it._

“So you’re going to be pampering my son? Or _have_ you been needlessly making things easy for him?”

Bee shook his head and shuffled a bit to a more comfortable sitting position. _Pit, no. I’ll be there for him and help you and Ron care for him, being a different viewpoint and someone outside of the family unit helping mentor a child. For example, helping him understand his homework. He’s a bright young man, smarter than most people would willingly recognize because of his carefree nature._

“I suppose that’s one way of putting it. Goofball is another way. So you’ve been helping him, and he’s been doing nothing to help you in return?”

Bumblebee had the feeling that this was going to be a learning experience. Apparently, humans did things a lot differently than Cybertronians. So he asked, _So your culture doesn’t have the ingrained practice of reciprocation?_

Judy’s mouth twisted to one side in a wry smile. “It’s a learned trait in America.”

_Ah. My people have it a bit differently. In my case, for example, because I was raised by Optimus and Ironhide, with influences from other mechs who were in their circle of trusted friends, while I was a Youngling, I would do everything in my power to help them out when I could, if it was in my power to do so. So then I will have to work with Sam to help him come to this point of reciprocation, helping me out in return?_

“It would be best,” Judy said with a nod. “He’s still young, and needs to know that helping out those who are helping him is something that will serve him well in the long run.”

Nodding his assent, the young mech checked on Sam’s progress. Finding it to his satisfaction, he gave a mischievous look to the mother that was reminiscent of all young men before saving Sam’s work on the computer and remotely shutting it down.

The teen’s angry snarl was clearly audible. “Bee! What the hell?!”

_I’m afraid that if he sees you in here with me, he won’t take the lesson to heart. May I have the datapad back?_

Handing it over, Judy grinned and said, “Stick it to him.” And with that, she was out, around the side of the house, and slammed her car door as if she had just gotten home. Singing a currently-popular song from the radio in off-key tones, she pulled out the few items she had gotten from Wal-Mart and Michael’s, ready to change out the seasonal décor of the house from spring to summer. “Hi, Sam! Hey. Where are you going?”

He paused his angry stalking out to the back yard to greet her in the kitchen. “Hi, Mom. I’m going to go and dismantle a car.”

“Why?” she asked, putting the bags down and putting her hips on her hands. “The government won’t like that very much, and neither will his big friends.”

“He’s being demanding. And frustrating. I mean, I can’t just have him tagging along behind me wherever I go! I don’t have any privacy!” Sam ran his hands through his hair before rubbing at his face. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Sam Witwicky, you look at me.”

Chocolate brown eyes looked up guiltily.

“He’s a good guy. He’s also assigned to keep your precious little butt out of danger. Big mean robots aren’t something I want to see on my doorstep, so you do what you can to treat him nice.” Judy shook a finger at her son. “The least you can do is see what he wants. And you haven’t answered any of my texts! Have you been ignoring me?”

“Been ignoring my phone, Mom,” Sam replied, half under his breath. “I’m trying to finish off my report, and I can’t do that with an Autobot demanding to see me every two minutes, or by answering my phone.”

This was a complete one-eighty from the excited Sam who had all but hugged the Camaro when Bumblebee and the red and blue semi had arrived. Judy later found out why Optimus hadn’t transformed. Considering that he was pushing forty feet in height, no house could feasibly shield his frame during daylight hours. So she pinned her son with her gaze, searching his eyes out and seeing enough guilt to feed an angsty teenage girl for several years. “All right, spill. What’s wrong?”

Sam didn’t answer, and he looked away, running his fingers over the corners of the island in the center of the kitchen, trying to figure out how to say things in such a way that his mother would understand. But he couldn’t tell her about how his actions saved the Prime and doomed the entire Cybertronian race with one single action. Even if he wanted to tell her, the matter was above classified, and the only ones he could speak to about it were the Autobots themselves. He couldn’t bring up that pain again to either them or to himself. So he gave her the second issue that was bothering him. “It’s like I have another parent in my life. All he does is give me this _look_ and I’m feeling the disappointment in me.”

“So he can guilt you better than I can. I guess that means that I should be more upset about this, since I was the one who gave birth to you and all.”

“No, Mom, it’s like he’s just . . .”

“A conscience? A good influence? A good guy who chose to be around you?”

“He’s got other things he has to do with his time!” Sam exploded, throwing his hands up into the air. “He’s a damn robot warrior who shouldn’t have to be babysitting me or keeping me safe from a threat that hasn’t been around for a year!” The teenager then rubbed at his face. “And to top it off, I have that project to finish, _and_ still plan bringing Mikayla out on our year anniversary _and_ figure out what to do for next year’s courses—”

“Sam, stop.” Judy sighed and moved to hug him, drawing his head down to rest on her shoulder, being just the caring mother that didn’t have to push her son to grow into a man. “You’re important to him, and maybe looking after you is something that he needs right now.”

“Ratchet told me that he’s still just a bit older than me, maturity-wise.”

“But he’s always been the ‘little brother’ to them, if that’s the case. Maybe he wants to be the ‘big brother’ and take care of someone who he _doesn’t_ owe anything to.”

Sam’s voice was muffled as he allowed himself the brief comfort of being embraced by his mother. “How do you know all this?”

“I’m a mother. He’s young in behavior, even if he’s old in years and understanding of the way his world works. Now. You go out there, and you see what he wants. Has he ever asked you to come to him, and not had _reason_ for it?”

“No,” came the grumbled, but understanding, response, and with no more words, he kissed his mother’s cheek and continued out the back door. She watched how he moved, seeing how his stalk had turned into a hands-in-pockets teenage shuffle. Nodding to herself, she turned back to getting the miscellaneous decorations updated for summer.

Sam, meanwhile, opened the garage door, seeing Bumblebee look up from studying a Cybertronian datapad, which he put into hibernation when the human entered. Frowning, Sam asked, “So what’s up?” He reached over absently and picked the iPad up just as it beeped, having gotten used to the response times and how long it took for messages to reach the human device.

_You weren’t answering your phone. I was wondering if you had wanted to take a break from your project._

“I really don’t have time, Bee . . .”

_Please? I know of something that’s just as productive, and something that will be fun for both of us._

Looking at the screen for a moment, he looked up at the all-too-innocent face before rubbing at his hair and then looking helplessly up at his “guardian.” “Really, Bee?”

_You have enough time to finish the project early, and I have been helping you with making sure that you were doing all the calculations and references correctly. Not that it’s hard for someone with a mind like mine to remember how to format things._

That got a half-grin, then the teen gave in. “All right, all right. What do you want to do?”

Smug blue optics preceded the message. _I’d like to go to a carwash._

“Woah, woah, here! Bros don’t _wash_ bros!”

_It’s my alt-mode, Sam! It’s not even a thorough wash to get the muck out from under my armor plating._ Pleading blue optics filled Sam’s vision and he began to feel his resolve crumble. _And I have enough dust and pollen on my paint to shame me in front of the other Autobots. Washing is hard for me to do on my own when I have to pretend that I’m just a car, and it’s cold at night._

Cold.

The young man winced and looked away, rubbing at his face. He didn’t want to deal with the memory of Bee getting frozen while he was forcefully tucked into an SUV. There were things that he just didn’t want to remember, things that plagued his memory in waking hours and in sleep. Sometimes, he just wanted Bumblebee to _leave_ so that he wasn’t constantly reminded of each separate, distinct failure.

Sam failed Bumblebee twice. He didn’t want the Autobot to come to harm a third time.

Sam was responsible for the death of their race. Without the AllSpark, they were unable to procreate, to have children. From what the Autobots had told him, their planet was dead without the power of the AllSpark to continue to breathe life into the metal terrain as well as into their children.

“Sam.” The hoarse voice was followed by electronic coughs and a warble of concern. His throat had been healed by the AllSpark, but before he was even brought back to Sam as his Guardian, a Decepticon had been sadistic enough to take out the repaired and valuable piece of equipment with a chortle of evil glee. So he had been reduced to being voiceless again. And for one whose very nature was outgoing, to be denied speech was a handicap that truly ached.

A finger rested on his shoulder, then tipped his chin up to look into his optics. Sam Witwicky hated it when Bumblebee could see right through him. But this time, Bumblebee did something different. He lowered his head to brush his forehead to his charge’s, vents gusting hot air in a sigh, door wings dipping slightly. With another sigh, the mech sent a message to the iPad.

_I just want to know . . . what is it that troubles you when you look at me? Don’t answer just yet. We can talk while you wash my armor . . ._

“Why do you want me to do that?”

Optics quirked up in a smile. _Because it’s what friends do as a sign of trust. I understand that it’s not how your people operate, but it’s my way of telling **myself** that I trust you to help me with even the most mundane of chores._

“But . . . shouldn’t it be the opposite way?”

_No. I can trust a mech to watch my back in battle because we share the same cultural ideals. But I cannot trust that same mech to be in my personal space and continue to respect me. I’m an adult, but I’m still a **young** one to many of my peers. To make matters worse, I’m also an officer of sorts. I had to be, in order to be part of Prime’s advance team._

Sam frowned, but didn’t move closer to the mech when Bee sat back, crossing his legs carefully. “So because you’re a young officer, to say that if you trust someone of higher or equal rank to help you wash is saying that you’re being arrogant by saying that _you_ feel that they can now be considered _your_ equal?”

_Hm. Yes. Essentially. Good work on deducting that. And to go to an infantry mech . . ._

“That’d be even worse. Because then people might think that you could be being influenced by an older Autobot who isn’t of your rank. Dude, I didn’t think you were in that tough of a spot.”

_It doesn’t bother me as much as it used to. I’ve got friends from before I was promoted who remained my friends. I’ve made some new friends in the last several years._

“Are they still alive?”

_Oh yes. Most of them still live. They’ll be making planetfall soon, if everything is going as planned._

Sam thought on this for a moment, taking a perch on the stool beside one of the work benches. After a moment, he asked, “So what is it saying to Autobots if they find out that _I’m_ helping you clean your armor?”

Bumblebee was pleased that his charge was asking this question. He and Prime were right; Samuel Witwicky would make an excellent liaison when he was mature. _It’s saying that I trust your people, and you in particular, and take you as equal to me in skill. For a surface-wash, it’s saying that you have gained my trust._

“Surface-wash?” This sounded different than “armor washing,” somehow.

Bumblebee took a moment to compose his reply, then nodded and sent it. _It’s the surface of the armor, only._

“So then there’s other kinds of helping someone wash down?”

_Oh, absolutely._

“Okay, so just so that I know what you’re thinking, what are the different kinds of washing?” Sam was curious about when he had gone from being creeped out by Bee asking him to bring him to a car wash, to being intrigued by meaning behind all of it. It went from “personal hygiene” to “serious cultural things I should know about my best friend.”

_There’s a surface wash, which is what I’m asking for your help in. Then there’s when one has to get under the armor to give it a thorough cleaning from all angles, and to clean build-up out from under the clasps and levers that need to move and rotate during transformation. If there’s build-up, grime and gunk coating moving parts, that can slow a transformation at a critical moment, or worse, jam during transformation._ He detached one piece of his leg armor and winced visibly at seeing what was caught under there.

“Oh. That doesn’t sound good. And it definitely doesn’t look good, either.”

_Yeah. Not good at all. Then there’s a deep wash, which gets in between here._ Bumblebee pointed under the plate to where bits of grime was sitting concealed. _It’s worse on my back, I already can tell. I’ve been able to get most of the gunk out from the easy-to-reach places without much trouble._

This was something to think about. It was a good day, warm and cloudless. Sam wondered about the plan in his head for one moment before Bee chirped. _Carwash?_

Sighing, he shook his head. “No, man. I can’t do that.”

This took Bumblebee back, and he had already composed a reply when Sam put the iPad down and opened the garage door to let the warm air in, turning to look at his Guardian. “If you trust me . . . I want to get as much of that crap outta your system as I can today.”

Bee’s face didn’t reveal his shock, but his doorwings sure did. They shot straight up in shock, stiff and unmoving as he leaned closer, handing the tablet to his charge with careful delicacy. _I trust you, and if you really want to help me with that I would be very, very thankful, but why do you ask to help me on that level?_

Shrugging, grinning, the teen replied, “It’s useful procrastination. And you need it. That’s a lotta gunk, and you said that you cleaned that off recently?” He saw Bumblebee nod, then grinned. “So I guess I can help take care of you, too, huh?”

The young Autobot hadn’t thought of it like that. Maybe there was something to be said about being equally beneficial to one another. After all, that was how he and most of the other Autobots operated, even if he owed them a greater debt of gratitude than they owed him. So he nodded again and looked out at the yard. So close, and yet, so far. He couldn’t really wash out there, or in here. There was too much that they could damage. Blinking, he looked at the human calendar, then shot off a quick text to Judy as Sam began to start pulling things together during the silence that followed a quick revelation.

He smiled with his optics, ducking his head. Yes. That was just what he had to do.

The reply came in the form of Judy opening the door and walking out to them. Sam always looked nervous whenever Judy and Bumblebee met. So she played up the “tough mother” card and pointed a finger in Bumblebee’s face, who sat straighter accordingly and paid close attention.

“If you want to do this, then you have to _promise_ not to let my son get in trouble.”

Bumblebee chirped his affirmation.

“No drinking.”

_Chirp._

“No being stupid.”

_Chirp._

“And he has to be back by seven on Monday, which you know is a holiday, otherwise you wouldn’t have asked me about this.”

_Chirp._

“And I want numbers, and the faces of who will be there.”

Gesturing for the iPad, Bee pulled all the information up and held it out for Judy. She blinked at the names and faces, most of whom were Autobots. “Why are _they_ all there?”

_Classified for the moment, but I’m sure that Sam will be able to find a way to tell you when we return._

She blinked, then pointed into his face again. “Fine. But I want pictures! I haven’t been out in that part of the country since I was on a vacation with my college!”

“Wait. What are you two talking about?” Sam finally asked, having been too confused by their interactions to have spoken up before this point.

“Roooaaadddtrriiiippp!” a cartoonish voice yelled from Bumblebee’s speakers. He optic-grinned giddily, bouncing in place a little.

“Roadtrip to _where_?” Sam asked.

“Outside of a little down in Oklahoma, middle of nowhere,” Judy replied, turning him around and giving him a gentle shove towards the house again. “Go pack what you need.”

“What will I need?” he asked, too shocked to do anything but take a few steps away from the garage.

Bee found the sound clips he needed, replying, “Boots,” “Jeans,” “Shirts,” “Spare socks,” and “an open mind.” He ducked his head closer to Sam’s point of view, saying one last thing. “Many secrets await you.”

“So should we bring you to the carwash _now_ , or . . .”

“Later, man. Later,”

“I’m guessing that it’ll be somewhere in Oklahoma.”

“Thaht’s raight,” a Western drawl answered him.

“Huh. Okay.” Then he grinned and asked, “I’m really going on a roadtrip?”

Bumblebee nodded, leaning forward on one hand to hold his other out just enough to brush it over Sam’s hair affectionately, like any older sibling would do to a younger.

“Can Mikayla come?”

Bumblebee frowned, then tilted his head to one side before sending a message to the tablet. _I’m not sure. While you pack, I can see if I can get permission for her. Because I’m **your** Guardian, you can come with me to places without having to do more than make sure you keep to the verbal secrecy agreements. Go! Get ready! I’m as excited about you to be going out there!_

Sam darted off, slid to a stop on the gravel driveway, then darted back to plug the iPad back in, and then took off to the house again. Judy chuckled and shook her head, picking the tablet up and asking, “So. Think that this will help him?”

_I don’t know. I hope so. But I know one thing for certain._ He looked at the mother of his charge with a gentle expression upon his face. _He’s got the makings of a great man and a great leader. Raising and guiding such a child is not easy, but all the hard work pays off in the end. This trip will help give him some perspective, if nothing else._

“Good. Just bring him back in one piece.”

_I bring him home from school in one piece, don’t I? This will be less hazardous than his mouthing-off to jocks, I promise you that._

Laughing, Judy nodded and set the iPad back down, walking to the door and patting one golden arm with a smile, waiting with the Autobot until her son came darting out of the house. Sam really was one special boy.

And like all special children, he caused more than enough grief than any other three children combined. Thank God that she had some pretty awesome help to bring that boy up. She waved after the sunbright muscle car as it pulled out of the driveway, hearing the engine roar in appreciation of logging some miles.

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Putting this up early in appreciation of getting a TON of reviews on the last chapter! You guys are awesome! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I hope that I continue to not disappoint you in the coming chapters and story arcs!_

_Song is Anthem by Boom Boom Satellites, found on the Appleseed soundtrack._


	10. Designs Arc 2: What I've Done

If there was one thing to be said about any member of the Autobot army, it was that they were determined fraggers. They where the mechs and femmes that Optimus, Prowl, or Jazz could ask the impossible of, and it would happen. Scouts could remain undiscovered, or untouchable, for years on end. Engineers could (and have) created miracles that turned the tides of battles . . . and blow the scientist in question sky-high during the testing process. Frontline warriors were sent out to hold the line of battle with the infantry, inspiring them and giving the officers and the other heavy-hitters enough time to move into position. Officers sacrificed their time, their lives, in order to see that those whom they lead were living comfortably when Decepticons weren’t attacking.

So when Bumblebee knew that something was bothering Sam enough that the boy wasn’t talking, he was certain he was going to find out on this road trip. Humans were creatures of secrets, more so than Cybertronians. Their entire lives were filled with things that they didn’t tell others out of want of privacy or because of fear in various degrees. Fear that they weren’t the people that others perceived them to be, fear that they had betrayed someone, fear that they would be ostracized . . . the list went on. Very few humans were completely open about who they were, what they did, what they wanted out of life.

Hm. Perhaps Bee shouldn’t judge Sam by adult standards, actually. Sam was still a teenager, a boy. He wasn’t a man yet, and wouldn’t be for some years. He had started to prove his worth in Mission City, started to show his potential, and exceeded what many thought he was capable of. But he still was a Youngling.

Detouring through Las Vegas and making sure to log certain views that Judy would like, the sunbright mech wondered how best to get Sam to open up. He was listening to the way that the boy was gibbering in awed tones about the city with part of his mind, affirming or mentioning certain details on the iPad that he would find interesting. As they left the Strip, though, with Sam staring out the back window, Bumblebee was still at a loss. He was too young to raise a Sparkling by his culture’s standards, and he was frequently in positions that if they did have Sparklings, he would only be putting the child in danger. Because of that, he only had his own experience to draw upon when it came to asking Sam what was wrong.

Slaggit.

_Sam, remember that question I asked you in the garage? The one about what was bothering you?_

That shut the teen up.

Oh, this was going to be fun. Not.

Finally, after a moment of silence, Sam replied, “Yeah. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Of course he didn’t. Males don’t like talking about feelings. Wait. There was an exception in there somewhere. There had to be. It was something having to do with certain types of friendships, and the commitment level between those friends. _Sam, I enjoy our friendship. I really do. And I want to keep our friendship. I want to see if there’s any way that I can help you through what’s bothering you, because I can see that it’s eating your soul away. Please?_

Sam sighed and put the iPad down on the passenger seat, looking away from it and scowling lightly as Bee pulled onto a highway again and wove smoothly through traffic at an acceptable speed. He didn’t talk for almost five minutes, when he finally said, “Promise me that you won’t be hurt by what I have to say. And that you won’t turn around and dump me at home and leave.”

Oh, thank Primus. Sam was opening up.

Chirping and pinging the iPad with a message, Bee avoided a tractor-trailer that was changing lanes. Sam picked it up to read the text. _I’ve been called “too forgiving for my own good” by many mechs. I’m not the kind to hate you for working through something that’s really bothering you. I can’t promise to not be hurt, but I promise to do my best to understand you. And I won’t bring you home if I don’t like what you have to say, nor will I leave you behind at any time. I’m your Guardian, and your friend. Guardians never leave their charge unless they’re certain of the charge’s safety, and I never leave any of my friends behind, ever._

That seemed to appease Sam, lowering his heart-rate and bringing his stress levels back from where they had been. He fiddled with the metal edges of the tablet before saying, “I . . . I failed you, Bee.”

That caused the vehicle to actually _twitch_ with shock, and he forced his voice through damaged circuits. “Ssssaamm?”

“I tried to stop them from freezing you, I tried to stop them from taking you, and _I couldn’t do it._ I tried! I can’t be a real friend to you because I can’t do for you what you’re doing for me!” He hit the door with his fist, then winced and rubbed at the spot apologetically, having momentarily forgotten that it was part of the Autobot’s body. “Sorry.”

The boy was feeling guilt for being a boy and not able to stop _an organization_? Primus love the child! Bumblebee warmed the seat a hair, getting Sam to look at the iPad in response. _You are one person, Sam. I was more worried for you, and I felt as if **I** had failed you. I couldn’t protect you, I couldn’t make sure that they wouldn’t interrogate you._

“But you were the one that they were after!”

_Yes, and for many years. Sam, I spent four years on your world before there was the opportunity to “belong” to you. Sector Seven had been trying to capture me for most of those four years. They were after you because they were making the connections that you, as a Witwicky, knew more than they did about us. Which was true after you met Optimus. You knew the situation; they didn’t have a clue about what danger they were keeping in cryogenic stasis._

“Megatron.”

Finally finishing writing a program that would help with making this conversation easier, Bee uploaded it onto the iPad, reset the tablet, restarted it, and then forwarded a message to it as a test. “And Megatron was all that they knew.”

“Woah! You can _talk_ through this?”

“Sort of. It’s a program I’ve been working on writing over the last several weeks, based off of the Japanese Vocaloid voice synthesizer. The fact that it took weeks shows that I’m no code-monkey by any stretch of the imagination. I had to change and adapt it thoroughly for my use, and used my own recorded voice samples from the past, and that was tricky. I’m hoping that this will make conversations easier between us, because now you can hear what emotions I want to portray.”

Sam put the tablet down, but with the speaker facing upwards. “Super cool. So . . .”

“They only knew Cybertronians as vicious war machines. Which we can be when circumstances call for it.” They were now making some serious speed, but still within “safe” limits. Thankfully by now, there were many of the new Camaros out on the roads, and to see one flying down a stretch wasn’t that uncommon for other drivers. “But Sam, _please_ understand that it was none of your doing that got me caught.”

“You were protecting me, you had just saved my _life_ and were trying to get up and get away! I couldn’t do _anything_!”

“Sam, what can one boy, _one child_ , do against an organization of men? _I don’t blame you_ for not being able to do anything.”

“That doesn’t stop—”

“Sam, I’m _proud_ of the actions you took. You tried to escape them, but you didn’t run away. You ran to try to save me. Me, an _alien_ to your people, someone you only knew for, what, a day? Ten men couldn’t do anything against Sector Seven when they were in that mode of action. But what you tried to do for me . . . _that_ was enough. More than enough.”

“But you . . . You looked like you were trying to ask for my help.” Sam ran his fingers over the Autobot insignia that sat in the center of the steering wheel.

There wasn’t a way to chuckle through the program that wouldn’t sound artificial, but Sam could tell by the way that Bumblebee was moving that he was vaguely amused. He knew that if they were having this conversation face-to-face, Bee would be smiling with his optics. “I was worried for you. I was in pain, my fluids were freezing, my armor was freezing, error messages were overriding my systems, and I couldn’t protect you from the men. Yes, I wanted you closer to me so that I could _protect_ you . . . or at least or at least _try_ to protect you. I never guessed that you were thinking that _you_ had to protect _me_. I was worried that I would never get to see you again. I didn’t, and still don’t, want to fail you, Sam.”

Sighing, the teenager rubbed at his face, then slouched in the driver’s seat, which reclined just a hair to accommodate him. He had the feeling that Sam was only touching the tip of the icebergs with what was truly bothering him. But hearing his words had probably struck something in the teen’s soul. “Where are we right now?”

Clearly, the boy needed time to process what he had just heard. Bee always knew where he was, so he said, “We’re an hour from Flagstaff, Arizona so long as I keep avoiding police scans.”

Sam grinned. “Isn’t that illegal?”

“I’m not a citizen of the United States.”

“Dude. Cool. But if you get tagged, then _I’m_ the one in trouble.”

“I’ve been changing my license plates every thirty minutes.”

“Okay, now _that’s_ illegal.”

“Only for humans.”

Sam laughed, enjoying the ability to banter back and forth with the Autobot. “So when will we be arriving at our oh-so-mysterious destination?”

“Midnight at the latest.”

“That’s only, like, seven hours total driving time.”

“I like to go faster.”

Sam blinked, then hit the steering wheel lightly. “You tin can waste of space!” he laughed. “Thanks for throwing my words back at me!”

“If you’re trying to insult me, you’re going to have to try harder,” Bumblebee retorted, the tones of the artificial voice distinctly smug that he had gotten the boy back. “But. You have your laptop, and you need to finish at least a bit more of your project done. I’ll let you know if we’re going through what’s deemed a scenic area.”

“You know, I’m glad that you tint your windows, otherwise we’d be really screwed.”

“Or I could activate my holoform while you sit in the passenger seat.”

“Uh . . .”

“Still uncomfortable with that?”

“Just a little.”

“No problem.”

And with that, they spent the next several hours in peace, bantering occasionally, laughing and relaxing around each other, teasing and trash-talking. It was a relief to be able to have a way to communicate verbally, and the tension between them settled again.

“Bee, where are we going? And why?”

“A ranch. There’s a friendly human who is authorized to know of us in that area, and she has pretty much given us a resort of sorts. It’s a place where we can go and recover after a particularly hard mission, or just to get cleaned up, or just have a place where if we’ve been through a rough spot, we can come here and be able to take our time finding ourselves again.”

Sam looked at the radio, then the steering wheel again. “So what you’re saying is . . . you’re bringing me to a robot spa?”

That got Bumblebee to laugh inwardly, swerving lightly in amusement before changing lanes and skillfully exiting the highway onto the main route that would bring them within striking distance of the ranch. “Not exactly. Optimus made it clear that I was to come and see this property, but he wasn’t forthcoming about _why_. The wording and phrasing was lighthearted enough if you didn’t know the mech, but . . . having known him my entire life, I can tell when something important has been left unsaid.”

Making a notation in the document he was working on, Sam asked absently, “How often are you in contact with Optimus anyway?”

“Multiple times a day.”

Fingers pausing, the boy looked up again. “Really?”

“He raised me. Of course.”

“Wait. Optimus _raised_ you?”

“He, among others.” Bumblebee didn’t want to reveal Megatron’s role in his upbringing just yet, but because of Megs, he was the fighter and warrior that was needed on Earth. Funny, how life turns and spins like that.

“Wow. So because you’ve known him for so long, you know when he’s holding onto a big secret.”

“Which is why I’m taking you to the ranch. There’s something going on that he hasn’t told us about, something he doesn’t trust to distance communications. That worries me, because it means that the game has changed. Something happened, and it’s big.” He pulled down a long, thankfully paved, road that would bring them directly to the hidden ranch. “If you save your work, we’re coming up on the ranch now.”

Glancing at the time, Sam grinned. “Ten minutes to midnight. Damn, Bee, you sure you didn’t screw with the radars?”

“Only a little.” He pulled into the driveway and stopped, letting Sam out with his bag before transforming and walking around the house, the human he watched trotting along beside his strides to the back of the house, where he saw Optimus’ broad back. _:Sir. Bumblebee reporting.:_

Turning, Optimus smiled to see the duo, holding a finger up to his lips to indicate silence. Putting his bags down on a picnic table, Sam made sure to keep up with his guardian as they rounded the leader.

Bumblebee very carefully fell to his knees beside Optimus, one yellow hand moving to hover over the small forms that were sprawled carelessly over his legs, heat-leeching and clicking in their slumber _:Sweet Primus . . . Sparklings? **This** is what you’re hiding here?:_

“Among other things, yes.” Reaching a hand up to curl it around the back of Bumblebee’s helm affectionately, Optimus smiled and patted the once-Sparkling he had raised. Looking down at the human, he indicated that the boy come closer. “These are Sparklings, Sam. Exhausted, thank Primus, otherwise we’d be overrun. We have enough help right now to keep them running to the point where they all but start recharging on their feet.”

“Except for me,” one small voice said, and Sam jumped at seeing red optics pop up over Prime’s thigh, then carefully bounce over the other recharging friends. “Hi. You’re younger than the other adults.”

“I’m . . . I’m not really an adult yet. I’m still in high school.” Sam crouched to look at the Sparkling, who was holding onto a tablet of sorts. It seemed like their arrival had interrupted the Sparkling’s studying time.

“I’m Faust. My caretaker is Dana, who’s sleeping right now. But Optimus and Ratchet let me stay up later so long as I’m not exhausting myself.” Faust held out a little hand, which Sam shook carefully, still curious but cautious. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Sam Witwicky—”

“You’re the boy with the glasses!” Faust said, carefully pitching his excited voice so as not to awaken the other Sparklings.

That got Sam to grin. Looks like all children had the same reactions to meeting someone that they thought was “cool.” With a smile, he nodded. “Yeah . . .”

Faust bounced on the balls of his feet for a moment before asking, “In Mission City . . . were you scared?”

“Absolutely.” Taking a seat and leaning against Bumblebee, who had been passed a small Sparkling and was cradling it against his chest cautiously, looking almost afraid of breaking the small child, Sam grinned. “But I knew that if I hadn’t done everything I possibly could, many more people would have died or gotten hurt.”

“Do you regret having to destroy the AllSpark to save Optimus’ life?”

“Faust,” Optimus growled warningly. “You remember we spoke about this matter.”

Wincing, sharing so many similar traits to that of a kicked puppy, Faust lowered his head and started to whisper an apology, but Sam rubbed gently at the small helm, cutting the Sparkling off mid-stream. “You’re learning. It . . . it’s hard for me to talk about it right now. Short answer? Yes. I regret it every time I look at Bee.”

The scout looked from the Sparkling in his arms to his charge, and he moved his hand to brush Sam’s shoulder, a gently rumbling warble reassuring the boy. _:Optimus, he regrets so much of what he’s done. The poor kid is neck-deep in it.:_

_:That’s another reason why I wanted you two out here. He needs this break as much as you do, and he absolutely needs to see that we don’t hold his actions against him. He made adult choices in a situation and now has to deal with his emotions and his memories as a maturing boy.:_ Optimus smiled at Faust, who looked up to him for reassurance, then spoke aloud. “Sam, you saved many lives. Looking back, if you had followed my directions to the letter, I would have all but handed Megatron your planet on a gilded platter.”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now, Optimus. I’m sorry.”

Nodding, the leader looked to Bumblebee, then back to Sam. “What you’ll see this weekend, we’ll need you to keep a very tight lid on. Nobody, even Mikayla, can know what, and who, is on this property. Lennox and those of his team also know that they are not even allowed to report the fine details of what’s holding up their current ‘mission.’”

“Gotcha.” Sam barely hid a yawn behind his hand, and Faust bounced up again. “I’ll bring you to the spare room. Major Lennox and his men brought some tents that they’re using to sleep in, and said that because they’re soldiers, they’re fine with sleeping outside with us. But you’re not a soldier yet. So you get the guest room. We just have to be quiet so that Momma doesn’t wake up.”

“Momma?”

“Dana.”

“Oh. You call her your mother?”

“Do you call your female caretaker your mother?”

“Well, yeah, but Mom gave birth to me.”

“What if you were adopted?”

“Well, I guess I’d still call her Mom.”

“I’m adopted.”

“Then I guess you’d better call her Mom.”

Faust and Sam grinned at each other, and he stood up and patted Bumblebee’s arm. “Get rest, buddy. I know driving a thousand miles is nothing to you . . .”

Chirping softly and waving Sam off towards the house, Bee’s optics smiled at his charge in a clear, “To bed with you!” motion. Grinning, the teen picked his bags up and followed Faust inside.

Several sets of blue optics lit up when the young man was inside and Faust had brought himself to bed. Kup sighed, his old voice rumbling, “That boy holds onto guilt and regret like they’re shiny baubles.”

“Mm,” Optimus replied, the low register of his voice vibrating through his frame.

“Bumblebee, _that_ is the child who killed Megatron?”

The scout’s head snapped up to look at Prowl, who had arrived without a sound. Very few could sneak up on the small yellow mech, but Prowl always had been one of them. _:Smelter’s rod! Make some noise when you’re walking around! Yes. That’s Samuel James Witwicky, known as Sam. He . . . he killed Megatron and destroyed the AllSpark.:_

“What a bittersweet accomplishment. And watch your language.”

Ducking his head submissively, the scout replied, _:He knows that without the AllSpark, we are all that there will ever be, even with the last fourteen Sparklings. The boy holds enough regret that it makes Optimus look carefree.:_

“Bumblebee, if there weren’t sleeping Sparklings around, I’m still able to slag your aft fifteen ways in a breem,” the leader growled.

_:Heh, no kidding. Which is why I said it while you have a lap-full of them . . . but . . . Primus, you know?:_ Looking down at the Sparkling in his arms, one of the youngest living Autobots felt his doorwings droop. _:It’s still so hard to believe that the Cube is gone. . .:_

“Yanno, if ya’d just stop lamentin’ f’r a moment, I’d get a chance ta say _hi_.”

Bumblebee stood, staring at the silver form that walked around Prowl’s black and white frame. Handing the Sparkling back to Optimus with hurried but careful movements, the yellow scout knelt before the Third In Command, resting hands on silver arms and his helm pressed to Jazz’s right shoulder. He picked up the beat of Jazz’s Spark, keening suddenly at the familiarity of it, crying in the only way that their kind could. _:You’re back . . . you fragger, you’re **back**. . .:_

“Back, an’ ain’ goin’ nowhere for a long while, Bee.” Holding the yellow head to his shoulder, Jazz shut his optics off, feeling the gentle warmth of Bumblebee’s Spark before him, and the heat of Prowl’s Spark behind him, the saboteur chuckled. “Ain’ goin’ nowhere, little bro. Cry it out; I know ya ain’ gotten a chance—hey!”

Bluestreak tackled Bumblebee and Jazz, landing the three of them in a tangled, laughing heap at the suddenness of it. The two young Autobots laughed and bumped helms, sandwiching Jazz between them and leaving Prowl looking skyward for patience.

It was almost like old times.

Despite his promise to get rest, Bumblebee stayed up almost the entire night catching up with old comrades, holding new Sparklings. He heard Sam awaken from a nightmare just before dawn, and, still carrying the Sparkling that had been named Cobalt, crawled over to the window, tapping the frame with infinite gentleness and chirping reassuringly. He saw Sam shoving a shirt over his head as he made his way out the door. But the boy paused to look at him before he exited, then met him at the back door. “Hey, Bee.”

Chirping, Bee tilted his head and gave Sam a look. Sighing, the human shook his head. “Terrible dream.”

The Sparkling stirred and woke up, blinking up at Bumblebee, who gave a happy chirp of greeting to him. Cobalt blinked, then nodded shyly, recognizing Bumblebee from the files that Ratchet gave him, along with a basic personality profile. With a chirp of contentment, he snuggled actively into Bumblebee’s chassis, knowing that the young Autobot was extremely gentle, but a fierce fighter. Sam grinned at the look on his guardian’s face, looking up at the pre-dawn skies and hearing the Sparklings all chirping and calling good morning greetings.

“They’re early risers . . . do they nap like human kids, too?” Sam wondered.

That was when he saw the shadow within the predawn shadows, seeing the unmistakable black and white patterns. There was a half-second of confused staring before Sam shrieked like a little girl and started to scuttle behind a confused Sunstreaker. “Barricade! Shit, Bee, get outta here, it’s the insane cop!”

Prowl blinked, doorwings hitching up as Hudson climbed up over his shoulder and blinked at the human making a scene. Optimus sat up and blinked at Sam, calling over, “Sam! Calm down; that’s not Barricade.”

“The hell?! Are you _sure_?”

Walking over to the startled boy and crouching much like Bumblebee did . . . or did Bumblebee crouch like Prowl? . . . the black-and-white stated in his even, cultured voice, “There is no comparison between myself and that half-glitch.”

“B-but you’re both cop cars.”

“For two different reasons,” Prowl said patiently, not even trying to lure Sam out from behind the snarly twin. “I chose it because I enforce the laws of Cybertron. He chose it because he likes to play with people’s perceptions of what an Enforcer actually is.”

_:Can you get him off of me? Kid’s leaving fingerprints on my finish, Prowl,:_ Sunstreaker complained, but he didn’t move.

Bumblebee chirped and gestured for Sam to come back over to him. After a moment, the boy did, blinking when he saw Sideswipe drift around a corner. Turning and staring up at the mech he had just hidden behind, seeing the stony expression and paling slightly. “Uh . . .”

“My twin, Sunstreaker,” Sideswipe said, Iris clinging to his chestplate, curious about the new human. She wriggled enough that she was put down, and the silver twin moved to stop precisely beside the golden one. “He’s obsessed with keeping his finish clean.”

“O-oh. Sorry. I mean, uh . . .”

Bumblebee shook his head and made amends. _:He’s going to be helping me with cleaning today. I need a thorough wash, and he’s small enough to get into some troublesome spots.:_

“Excuse me, you are actually letting him detail you?” Sunstreaker leaned closer to Bumblebee, glaring at the other yellow mech in warning.

Sam blinked, then looked up at Bumblebee, who nodded twice. _:It’s not a repaint, Sunstreaker. Now that you’re back, I won’t be letting anyone else touch my paint. Promise. Cross my Spark and hope to fly.:_

Grumbling, the twin huffed and stared down at the boy. “You really trust this runt, eh?”

Bumblebee nodded, which caused Sam to blink between the two of them.

“Nmf. Good. About time that you found someone to trust enough to help you clean when Bluestreak isn’t around.”

“Bluestreak?” Sam asked, blinking, still keeping Prowl warily in his sights, but at seeing the relaxed body language of those around the mech, knowing that yeah, he had just made a complete and utter fool of himself in front of a bunch of seasoned warriors. But considering the fact that he’d been chased, doored, intimidated, swatted, interrogated, and chased again by one Transformer wearing the guise of a cop car, he was pretty sure that they could understand his wariness.

There was a shuffle, and a sleepy voice muttered, “Here.”

Blinking and trying to peer over Ironhide’s slowly-waking bulk, Samuel felt Bumblebee touch his shoulder before he was scooped up and settled upon Bee’s own shoulder. He held onto the armor, seeing the grey mech with dark red highlights blinking sleepily at the starry sky. “Why’s he called Bluestreak if he doesn’t have any blue on him save for his optics?”

“Wait until his vocoder boots up and you’ll wish you never asked, lad,” Kup levered himself to his feet, groaning as old parts and new maintenance complained. “Right, well, I’m off to watch the sunrise . . . old mech like me likes seein’ beauty like that. Never had sunrises on Cybertron. Kids! Who wants to see the sunrise?”

A chorus of words and cries answered him, and Bee looked to Sam, optics smiling as he nodded towards the east in a clear, “wanna go?” movement.

Nodding, smiling, Sam held on as Cobalt was placed on the ground to let him run with the rest of the Sparklings to follow Kup. It was a rare treat to sit on Bee’s shoulder while the mech walked or moved around. He could count on one hand the times that he’d been up by their level. When they passed the tents, Lennox emerged, ruffling his short hair as he was all but tackled by a couple of the Sparklings. One of them even darted into his tent to retrieve Epps, who came out carrying the little one, smiling and knuckling the sleep from his eyes.

Because of how fast the Autobots could move, the humans were picked up after permission was granted and brought to the highest point on the property. There, the old mech settled down upon the dewy grass and was immediately ringed by the Sparklings, who were waiting eagerly for the sky to turn bright.

It was then that Sam realized that he was the luckiest boy in the world. He held onto Bumblebee’s shoulder, watching the sun rise. He felt the heat chase the chill away from his limbs, felt the brightness chase away the fears and shadows of his nightmare. With a sigh, he finally felt that he could face the day again.

And that was when he saw Jazz, standing beside Prowl, staring up at the clouds and grinning broadly.

Shouting and waving, Sam saw the small mech shout back and wave, walking over and saying with his deep, serious voice, “Kiddo, I got one thing t’ say t’ you.”

“Y-yeah?” Sam asked quietly, fearing the worst.

But his fears were dissolved when Jazz grinned and flipped his visor up, giving him an open expression. “Thank you. You took ’im down when I couldn’t.”

Face flushing, the teenager nodded and smiled shyly. With a smile, Jazz tapped his leg with one gentle claw before bouncing back over to Prowl and launching himself into the mech, but unable to make him budge. Prowl smiled and half-laughed, his voice soft but carrying over the small hill. “You’re going to have to do better than that to best my balance.”

And over it all, Optimus watched the sun touch upon the different helms, feeling his frame begin to warm from the nighttime chill.

Yes. Yes, it was time to discard the chill of the past.

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** So this ran a bit longer than I had anticipated. But I want to thank everyone for their reviews on the last chapter. Each time I get a review, it makes my day a bit brighter! And I’ve broken personal records with this story, thanks to those who are reading it! Thirteen reviews on one chapter alone!_

_To those who are reviewing anonymously, I want to personally thank you. And there were questions asked by one of you, Quacked Lurker, that I’d like to answer via PM. While yes, many authors like to keep readers hanging, I like to do the opposite. I like to keep **some** secrets, but I don’t mind giving out the broad strokes as of the current chapter._

_I know that this chapter covered a lot of ground, and I’m sorry if you may have found it a bit too long in some respects, but there are things that I had to cover and that I had to personally set down before I could continue on with the Designs Arc. Some requests have been made, and I’ll see if I can get them woven in, but if that’s the case, start looking forward to some **long** chapters._

_That’s all for now! Thank you for reading!_

_Song:  
“What I’ve Done” by Linkin Park, chosen because of Sam’s regret factor, and the fact that he’s slowly coming to terms with what he’s done, and what he needs to continue to do._


	11. Designs Arc 3: Too Far To Turn Back

_**Author’s Note:** Sorry that this took so long to get up. I decided upon taking a week off of writing to rest and to think about plots and what I need to do with this story. And then on top of that I got allergies, participating in a ren faire as a pirate (including shooting off black powder, WHEEE!) and a head cold. But I tend to like to write when I’m under the weather (and on cold meds). So here’s another chapter._

.o.

Ratchet and First Aid intercepted the lively group from the sunrise as they walked back, both zeroing in on Bumblebee. That was enough to cause the scout to freeze, startling the boy on his shoulder, who looked between him and the approaching duo with increasing trepidation.

“Bumblebee, we have to talk to you about something.”

His optics darted between the medics nervously. _:I was coming here to get a wash, Ratchet, I swear I was! It’s hard to get clean when I can’t be seen by the humans! I can’t just go to a carwash and use the sprays to get under my armor.:_

“Your hygiene always was spectacular, so I’m not going to start in on your recent troubles,” Ratchet replied aloud for the benefit of the human sitting on the complicated shoulder, who was looking more and more worried, knowing Bumblebee well enough to know when the mech was panicked. So Ratchet decided to stall the panic before it got out of hand by activating a hologram, holding it up in his hand for the young mech to see. “First Aid brought this with him.”

Unconsciously, Bumblebee touched his damaged throat, staring at the hologram. Sam saw the large fingers rubbing at the scar and made an instant connection, and he patted Bumblebee’s head with a smile. “You’re going to talk again, that it?”

Blinking and looking at his charge in shock, Bee warbled in sheepishness. _:I didn’t expect him to realize so quickly . . .:_

“Well, he’s a bright kid, despite being annoying as all young creatures are. That still includes you! Now, you go get washed up, and I’ll install this when I deem you clean enough. Thankfully, you’re not like _Hound_ and you actually _care_ about your appearance within healthy limits.” Ratchet waved Bumblebee on, turning to watch Kup’s pace for a click, clearly worrying about the old mech’s joints.

First Aid winked and waved to Sam before calling something over to Kup with clear familiar impertinence, which got a blaat of Cybertronian in return, causing laughter among the older mechs while the Sparklings began a game of chase-the-Jazz.

Sam watched this over his shoulder before he turned and looked ahead of them, seeing where they were heading. And he grinned just as he was set on the ground. Bee pointed to the house, where Dana was looking out the back door, holding her phone up. “Was that you?”

Bumblebee chirped and nodded.

Laughing, the woman waved Sam inside. “Come on, he wants you to eat something and get changed so that you can help him with maintenance.”

Fifteen minutes later, Sam was looking down into the corrugated steel who-knew-how-many-gallons tub that could fit all of the Sparklings in it with room to stare, seeing water already filling it. Jolt had a hand under the steel, warming the water. There was a spot where bubbles that were indicating boiling water were emanating from, but the steel wasn’t turning red or anything. “How are you doing that? Don’t you have some sort of electrical charge thing that you do?”

The blue mech grinned suddenly. “You know lightning?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s it do?”

“Make thunder.”

Sighing dramatically, Jolt asked specifically, “What does lightning do when it hits a tree?”

“The tree explodes?”

“Why?”

“Sap expanding?”

“Because of . . .”

“Oh. Extreme heat. That’s right. Energy creates heat if it’s not insulated. So wait. Are you saying that you’re running electricity through the entire tub?” He backed a pace off, and Jolt laughed, shaking his head and beckoning the boy forward, holding his hand out. “Look; all surfaces of my hands aren’t made from metal. There’s a reason for that. Metal, even non-conductive metal, expands and contracts too much when it’s heated for it to be a stable material when I’m constantly handling energy and heat.”

“So it would have melted, warped, and shorted circuits out.”

Pointing to the boy with a nod, the blue Autobot replied, “Yes, good.” He held his hand down for Sam to touch. “Feel that. What is it?”

He frowned, running his hands over the semi-porous material, feeling how smooth and neutral temperature-wise it felt. “It’s . . . ceramic?”

“Yep.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Sam blinked and tilted his head to one side, thinking. Jolt pulled his hand free from under the tub and put that hand into the water to swirl it around and even the temperature out, cooling his hand at the same time. He was startled when the young voice asked, “What did you used to do as a job before the war?”

Blue optics focused intensely upon the child, and it took several moments before Jolt found his voice. “Why do you ask?”

“Because those mods don’t look like the wartime modifications like what Bee has.”

Venting air and sucking in a fresh “breath,” it took another few moments before Jolt replied, “I was an electrician. It was an art. I would help medics and frame designers with a mech’s electrical system, but I also helped design the lighting of many buildings, often times for several reasons. For mood lighting. For holidays. Celebrations. I . . . my last project before the war was working on a building in Praxus. It was to be my final piece. I was going to retire with the funds I was paid for it.” Optics defocused and looked up at the sky. “Each room had seventy separate settings. In each suite, the main room would influence the lighting of the adjoining rooms. The building itself was tied into each room, and depending upon the settings of the rooms off of the hallways, the hallways themselves were lit to reflect the median setting, closer to the . . . there is no word in English.” He shook his head, but looked up as Bee chirped, settling down on the cement beside them. “Oh. The happiest emotional disposition of the mechs and femmes themselves, not the actual room settings.”

“That’s really cool.” Sam blinked and shook his head. “Man. We have fixed versions of that, and use lighting and surroundings to influence a mood.”

“I’ve researched them. Eastern temples and gardens particularly catch my interest.”

“Maybe you could design one, but something that’s a fusion of both human and Cybertronian style.”

Raising an optic ridge, Jolt murmured, “I may just do that. Thank you. Please excuse me, now. I have to be making sure that Epps is ready to return to base.” He nodded his head respectfully and started walking back, but not without a parting comment to Bumblebee. _:You’re grooming him exceptionally well for his role as liaison. I wasn’t sure that you would be able to do such a good job, what with your similar maturity and all.:_

Bristling, the younger mech glared at Jolt’s back. _:You realize that you’re addressing an officer in such a manner?:_

_:Yes, Lieutenant Bumblebee, I am aware. My opinion of your youth stands. **Respectfully,** sir, you’re still a child to many of us.:_ He sneered the last sentence.

_:Respectfully, Jolt, you take that attitude to the Pit with you when you’re finally faced with the fact that I can beat your sorry aft seven ways to sundown. Not only that, but if you keep it up, I **will** make sure that you know that fact personally.:_

That got Jolt to turn around and snarl, “I out-age you, kid and I would like to see you try!”

Sam, in tune with Bee’s body language, wisely backed up a step before looking around for backup. Seeing Ironhide’s foot, he ran for it, grabbing on to the pede and swinging around the corner to look up at the black face. “I think Bee and Jolt are arguing.”

“Slag. Again?”

“‘Again’?”

Standing with a startled Sparkling in his arms, Ironhide roared over the low building he was sitting behind, “What the _slag_ is going on?”

“Jolt’s runnin’ his mouth again,” Jazz drawled from behind another building, stretching arms and looking up at the taller mechs as he walked around the corner. “I heard it all.”

“How _could_ you have?!” Jolt hissed, voice sounding like water hitting a hot element.

Tapping the side of his head at audio-level, the Third in Command answered, “Head of Special Ops, yeah? Means I can hack any frequency I damn well wanna. Lieutenant Bumblebee, you wanna keep to ya word?”

A determined nod was all the answer that Jazz needed. Prowl, who had been with Jazz, watched silently. That was when Optimus’ low growl ran through everyone’s frame. _“What the fragging Pit is going on here?”_

Sam, who hadn’t understood the Cybertronian but somehow recognized the tones, looked with everyone else towards the stately mech ambling closer. Nobody was fooled by his movements, even the human. Everyone knew that Prime could go from languid walk to deathly action within a second. Prowl relayed the situation unerringly, watching Jolt and Bumblebee with wary optics. Optimus looked from one to the other before speaking in English. “Very well. Jolt, you clearly challenged Bumblebee’s ability to lead and fight as a mech worthy of his rank. Furthermore, you also challenged his level of maturity, which we clearly cannot hold a fair challenge for.”

“Before we continue, Prime, if I may interrupt.” Prowl spoke with perfect timing into Optimus’ pause, not quite cutting the leader off. His optics were cold to the common bystander, such as Sam and Jolt, both of whom were new to this crew, but those who knew Prowl for millennia, such as Jazz, Bumblebee, and Ironhide, saw the subtle smug expression.

“As my Second, you always have permission.” _:Even if you are still on medical leave and shouldn’t have to deal with petty squabbles.:_

Ignoring the commed comment, Prowl turned to face Jolt directly, and the blue mech barely contained his flinch at facing the legendary and fierce SIC of the Autobot army. “As his superior officer and a mech who has watched him advance into his position, I personally vouch for Bumblebee’s leadership skills. It is because of his upraising that he is the _mature_ mech that has personally overseen upwards of three thousand individual missions, with a success rate of eighty-seven percent.”

At this point, Sam’s brain went numb. _This_ was what Bumblebee was? This was his carefree Guardian who was sent to keep him safe? They considered the value of his safety to be worth the attention of _this_ mech? How?! He was just a _boy_ , just a kid whose ancestor fell into Megatron’s hand!

“He has put himself in the line of fire and taken damage in order to protect those under his command and saved a total of fifty-three mechs in nine-hundred-thirty-two unique situations. Furthermore, just to make you aware, of all the challenges of his battle skill set, he has only been defeated by a handful of mechs. And those instances, _he_ instigated the challenge to test himself.” Prowl grinned, and that shocked Jolt further. “These statistics are, of course, outdated as of a year ago. His continued actions to personally protect the AllSpark have been concluded during the battle on Earth, where I am told he saved the life of one Samuel Witwicky at the expense of his legs, which took several orns before repairs were finalized. With the loss of the AllSpark, his duty to protecting it is completed, therefore, he was reassigned as Guardian for Sam, who has bears witness to this dispute.”

Standing at a loose parade rest, Bee kept his gaze focused on Prowl. He hadn’t heard his stats in a very long time, and it was sobering to hear how long he had been a warrior. His doorwings twitched in anticipation, and that caught his commander’s attention. “I believe I have said enough. If you wish to take up the challenge of his station at a further date, I will give you stats and Bumblebee’s public record.”

Jazz was grinning at Bumblebee’s intense desire to finalize the issues between himself and Jolt so that there was no more guesswork. “I’ll gather the rest for a fair match.”

When he turned away, Prowl gestured for everyone to follow him. Bumblebee bent and scooped Sam up on his way, knowing that his charge was ready for the lift. Holding onto golden yellow armor as they moved towards a flat area, Sam waited until he was sure that Jolt wouldn’t hear him when he muttered under his breath, “I’m that important to be worth your time?”

Not looking down, Bumblebee nodded and chirped his affirmative, the sound almost lost in the clamor of several mechs joining up with them, most holding a Sparkling, the Twins flanking Bumblebee almost protectively, and yet, almost like an honor guard. Sideswipe held Iris, who was doing something on a datapad, and Sunstreaker was growling something at Torch, who looked rightly cowed by the golden warrior.

“Why?”

Bee couldn’t answer verbally. Instead, he looked down at Sam, blue optics intense and bright. He smiled and nudged butterfly-gentle at the teen’s chest. _You. Because of who you are._ When they reached the flat, dry ground, Bee lowered Sam to the ground, tousling the brown hair playfully before bouncing over to First Aid while Ratchet looked Jolt over.

“Sam,” Prime murmured, crouching beside the boy. Startled at how silent the large mech was, Sam yelped, then facepalmed. He was still jumpy from his police-car issue from the night before. Chuckling, Optimus murmured, “Want the best seat in the house?”

“Seriously, I can’t believe that you’re using terms like that.”

“I wasn’t always some great leader,” was the simple reply. “Maybe one day, when there’s time and peace to talk, I’ll let you know. By my offer stands.”

“Aren’t you already going to be holding two Sparklings?” Sam pointed to the two sitting on one shoulder, both of whom were peering at him curiously.

“Yes, but don’t you want to know what this is all about?”

It took all of a half second for Sam to take the few steps closer to Optimus, settling himself in his palm and holding onto one large grey finger while he was lifted and settled upon the broad shoulder. Optimus indicated the medics. “This is a challenge, a sanctioned match to prove a mech’s worth. When there are more of us, this happens more often. It’s no longer a challenge of rank, thanks to Prowl.”

“Why did he speak, and not you?”

“He can give an objective opinion, and I cannot. I helped to raise Bumblebee, as you know, and while Prowl has been under my command for a very long time, he has only known my top scout since he was late in his Youngling years and already going on missions.”

“You sent him on missions when he was a _kid_?” Sam hissed.

Optimus sighed. “Sam, I couldn’t _keep_ him away from the missions. I tried.”

“Oh.”

Smiling, the leader continued. “A challenge of this nature starts out with medics making sure that neither mech has been sabotaged, and that each are capable of fighting to the point where one will be declared a clear winner.”

“How’s someone declared a winner?”

“When they can’t fight anymore,” Sunstreaker replied, arms over his chest, optics watching the medics while Torch sat on his shoulder. “These fights used to get pretty messy when we had more of us around. Any mech can challenge, and any mech can decline a challenge up to this point here, when medics are making sure that both are capable of fighting. If a medic disqualifies a mech, they default automatically to the mech in better condition.”

Sam processed this before looking at Bumblebee. “And because First Aid hasn’t been around Bee for a long while, he can’t be accused of bribery or giving Bee an edge that he wouldn’t otherwise had by seeing his usual medic.”

“Not so,” Optimus replied. He reached up to touch the helms of Viridian and Sepia as they curled closer to his shoulder upon seeing Jolt’s whips activate and Bumblebee’s cannon hum to life. “Easy, little ones. These mechs fight to prove something to themselves. They will fight harder to protect you. Remember this.”

Two small chirps of affirmation made Sam grin and lean carefully around Optimus’ head to see the Sparklings blink out at the two mechs again, this time with determined gazes. Sitting back, he looked back at the main spectacle as the primary weaponry was subspaced and hidden under armor again. “So then . . . medics are neutral?”

“And the judges.”

“Sunstreaker! You’re judging too!” Ratchet called over.

“Can’t! I’m too closely tied to Bee!” Sunny called back, hands on hips and face curled in a snarl.

“Don’t you give me that slag! You may have been one of his _many_ teachers in fighting, but after Prowl, you’re our best hand-to-hand expert, and you know how to keep neutral. Prowl already spoke in Bee’s defense; rules state that he can do no more aside from recording the fight for official purposes.” Ratchet looked up at him, hands stilling after closing one panel of Jolt’s armor.

Sunstreaker looked to his Twin, having words with him for a moment before scruffing and holding Torch out for Kup to take. “Fine. Rules?”

“Can’t afford stray shots, so long range is prohibited.”

“Messy fight.”

“I’d rather the Sparklings not see this,” Optimus murmured as Kup came up beside them.

The old mech shook his head. “Me too, but lad, the babies need to know what combat looks like. We can’t have them freezin’ at the wrong moment. The Decepticons won’t dumb their warfare down around young optics, and neither should we.”

“Damn. I was hoping you’d agree with me, old mech.”

“Sometimes, you can’t protect ’em all. Better to prepare ’em,” Kup replied, watching as Bumblebee and Jolt took to their separate sides, mechs spaced in a staggered circle around them. Ratchet, First Aid, and Sunstreaker took equidistant spots at the edges of the circle to make sure that all angles of the fight would be covered.

Then, with a shrill whistle from none other than Ratchet, the fight began.

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** “Too Far To Turn Back” by Abney Park_

_Chose this because it’s one part warning, one part drums pacing, one part determination, and all kickass. This song definitely describes the feeling that I get when I think of what’s between the two movies, that place of hurry-wait-action, culminating in Megatron returning to life. So this song is really one of the main themes for “Things We Don’t Tell Humans.”_

_Please give it a listen! Thank you for reading!_

_Yes, I’m evil for the cliffhanger . . . if you’re nice readers, I’ll give you the next chapter tomorrow!_


	12. Designs Arc 4: Take Me Away

Bumblebee’s mind went from complete chaos to battle-silent at the sound of The Hatchet’s signal for the fight to begin. He froze, watching Jolt begin to move, analyzing each movement and noting what the slightly-smaller mech was doing. Technically, the whips were short-range weaponry, and so he was preparing to use them.

Doorwings flattened and battlemask formed.

Limbs tucked and head ducked.

Dart forward into the circle, sweep leg at his knee.

Contact.

Roll back, hands up in Diffusion stance.

Curses around him, shock at his adult speed, at the damage of that one kick.

Smug pride filtering from Optimus, Guardian-Caretaker-Father.

Duck-roll-handspring away from the flick of a whip, landing on toes and one hand.

Slag.

Intercept-whip-left-arm-PAIN.

Cutting back all contact with Optimus, knowing that the whip had shorted out some vital circuitry for his hand, Bumblebee used the last few firings of synapses to close his hand in a fist and lock it there. He shut down all nonessential sensors in his arm with another thought, glaring though his mask at Jolt, jerking his now-wounded arm back in a powerful sweep to throw his opponent off-balance, pivoting and grounding using his left leg while his right snapped out and his heel landed directly on Jolt’s elbow. With a strangled roar, Bumblebee continued the motion downwards, crushing the joint and disentangling himself, rolling away again, belatedly identifying Jolt’s cry of pain.

Vents heaving with stress, Bee shook his right hand and bounced twice on his toes before lowering into another Diffusion stance, stilling himself, waiting. He could have finished Jolt off at that moment. He should have at least put him in a submission hold.

Why didn’t he?

The young, but talented, scout let his processor spin through the few moments of the fight while he waited for Jolt to get up and continue the fight. He ran through the opening moves, followed by the retaliation. And then he grinned in the way he could, knowing that it wasn’t a nice grin at _all_. It was the grin of an experienced warrior seeing what he had just done.

“I could have finished you off, but I’m being nice and waiting for you to get back on your feet, pup.”

Oh, Pit, the look on Jolt’s face meant that he knew it, too.

Laughing inwardly, Bumblebee remained still, seeing Prowl behind Jolt, seeing how the mech had his arms crossed over his chest, optics firmly locked upon Bee’s left arm, which was the only limb not in perfect alignment. Blue pinpoints swept up to make visual contact, then back down to Jolt in the same motion.

Still vastly amused, Bee moved with exact precision, forcing his damaged arm to function and follow the moves to the iota. He would win this by a great margin, and he would win it while _not_ fighting in his usual style. Sidestepping the whip and spinning into Jolt’s area of influence, Bee’s fist-locked hand rocketed outwards into the side of Jolt’s face, sending him flying to his left into the dirt. He felt the whip wrap around one doorwing, and he cut off his pain receptors just before the limb was ripped from his back, using that momentum to give him the “springboard” to backflip, one open hand and one fisted hand touching on the dirt just long enough to propel him onto Jolt once again, free hand gripping Jolt’s undamaged arm at the shoulder, fist locked against the torso as he ripped the limb free, knees pinning Jolt to the ground, right hand with fingers straightened moving to lock under Jolt’s jaw, pinning his head up, fingertips inches from his main neural column, but not doing damage yet.

“I concede! Primus, I concede!”

Bumblebee released Jolt and picked his doorwing up in his good arm, walking off to sit on the ground on the opposite side of the circle from where Jolt lay groaning on the ground. He looked up at Optimus, seeing a white-faced Sam staring at him. Well, slag. Now he’d gone and scared his charge. Flipping his battle-mask up and looking away, Bumblebee began to inspect his left arm, seeing that the damage was deep and messy. Damn whips.

“The vote among judges is unanimous, and with Jolt’s concession, Bumblebee is the clear victor.” Ratchet said as he walked calmly over to the blue mech, staring down at him for a moment. “Hm. Bee, you were _easy_ on him! Clean damage!”

“ _That_ was him going _easy_ on Jolt?!” Sam yelped in shock.

“Scary, ain’t it?” Jazz said with a laugh, shrugging. “But he was even usin’ a style of fighting that he ain’t totally mastered, since Prowl ain’t done teachin’ ’im.”

“Optimus, put me down, please?”

Listening to the conversations around him, Bee turned his doorwing around to see how badly it had been pulled from his back. He knew that one of the struts was still attached, and if he hadn’t shut down his pain sensors, he’d be mewling in agony. He hoped that Sam didn’t hate him too much for what he was, now that he’d seen what he could do.

A human hand rested on his knee. Slowly, Bumblebee looked at Sam, but the boy had already climbed onto his leg and was looking at his singed and sparking arm, careful not to touch it. Turning, he looked at the arm that Bumblebee had ripped off of Jolt, squinting at the damaged end, then looking down at the fisted and locked hand of his Guardian. He leaned over the damage, holding onto Bumblebee’s chest armor while he pushed at the doorwing still in the young Autobot’s grasp, trying to see the damage better. Obligingly, Bee turned it. He blinked down at it, hummed once, then looked up at Bee’s optics, startling the mech. “That was you going easy on him, and he was going all-out on you?”

Bumblebee nodded, too scared of Sam’s opinion to chirp.

“And you will fight even crazier than that to protect me?”

He nodded again.

Sam nodded once in return. “Cool. Can I help fix you?”

That . . . wait. What?

Jazz started laughing at Bumblebee’s expression, tugging on Prowl’s arm. “There! That’s the look ya get! Right there! Right before ya crash! Hahahahaa! Sweet!”

“Bumblebee, if you crash, you’ll wake up redesigned as a femme!” Ratchet snarled, which effectively caused Bumblebee to hiss static in his direction before coughing, his voice fading into an anguished whine. Sighing, looking away from his current patient, Ratchet looked at the wincing Autobot. “And we’ll fix that, too.”

Bumblebee, however, was looking down at Sam, who had changed positions from his left leg to his right, settling back against his torso comfortably to watch the rest of the Autobots. Even though his Guardian was damaged, he knew that Bumblebee could still protect him, and it was that message he was sending out.

Cobalt crept over, blinking at Bumblebee before looking to Sam. “He’d fight to protect us like that?”

Grinning, the teenager replied, “He’d be even _more_ fierce. I’ve seen it.”

“And you’re not afraid of him?”

“He’s never hurt me before, and he’d never hurt me, kiddo. He’s my Guardian; protecting is what he does. You know, when he’s not being awesome.”

Optics smiling, Bee brushed the backs of his fingers along Sam’s arm in silent thanks after First Aid pulled the doorwing free of his grasp. The medic sighed. “This is why I hate whips. They tear, not snap and not break. It’s never clean. Damn.”

_:Isn’t snarking and backbiting part of Ratchet’s job description?:_ Bumblebee asked, optics still quirked up in a smile.

“Yeah, and I’m learning why he’s so damn grouchy all the time! Idiot warriors!” Smacking the back of the yellow helm with his hand with a laugh, First Aid moved to start repairs on the doorwing, then froze. “You _numbed_ your sensors?! You shouldn’t have access to those subroutines!”

“I gave him access,” Ratchet called over, “because he was doing so many long-distance scouting forays _and_ command missions that he needed those subroutines under his command. He uses them properly, Aid. Dammit, Jolt, if you don’t stop twitching, I’ll strap you down!”

“What the hell happened here?”

Everyone stopped to stare at Lennox, who was pointedly watching the two damaged Autobots. Optimus turned away from Jolt and _grinned_ , but the smile was somehow absent from his voice. “Jolt challenged Bumblebee’s command and battle abilities. Prowl vouched for Bumblebee, as he is his direct officer, and Bumblebee proved his mettle in battle.”

“And he took damage from Jolt’s whips?”

“Yes. While unarmed and using a style he hasn’t mastered.”

Epps blinked at the “innocent” blue optics that were looking smug and content, then looked up at Optimus again. “Unarmed.”

“Yes.”

Lennox rubbed at his face, then asked, “And he’s not in NEST _why_?”

“Because his assignment is to guard Samuel Witwicky.” Optimus’ smile faded and his expression was stern. “ _I_ choose where my warriors are stationed, Major Lennox, do not forget this. I may allow you to help place them in battle, but they are mine to command.”

“So why Bee and why not, hell, Arcee or . . .” he frowned, then looked around them. “Or any of your new people?”

Optimus was silent for a long moment, matching Lennox’s stare, waiting to see if the man would back down. Apparently, he wasn’t about to back down. “I will repeat myself: _mine to command_. I have my reasons, and I am allowed to keep them to myself.”

“Okay, big man, okay. I’m just wondering because he looks like he kicks some serious ass.”

“Oh, he does,” Sideswipe said with a laugh, then was distracted by Iris, rubbing his forehead to hers and smiling at her instant giggle and embrace of his face. His twin continued his thought. “Bumblebee has been trained by Optimus, Ironhide, Prowl, Jazz _and_ us. We’re not called the ‘Terrible Twins’ without reason.”

“Best frontline warriors you’ll ever see,” Bluestreak said, reaching down to gently harass Fidget, who was giggling and running around his legs. He smiled at the Sparkling, scooping her up and smiling at her. “But at the same time, it makes Skids and Mudflap look like total losers, not that they needed help in the first place. I mean, honestly, they’ve been offensive since the moment they on-lined as brothers. Thankfully, they’re not _actual_ twins, like Sunny and Sides here, because that would just be insulting.”

Lennox looked at the group surrounding himself and Epps, then looked at Bumblebee, who was miming something to Sam with actions and his face, getting a laugh out of the boy. “So he’s really a product of everyone raising him.”

“Yes. And he’s still fairly young by our standards, even if he’s unnaturally mature for his age.” Optimus settled Sepia and Viridian upon the ground, brushing his fingers over their helms and hearing their trilled “thank you!”s for the ride he gave them. “Being around Sam has given him something he hasn’t had in a very long time: the chance to be a young male again, the chance to enjoy life and not have seven to ten objectives to complete as a soldier and commander. He has one mission, one objective: protect Sam. Primus knows that it’s a hard mission, what with that boy resisting being guarded every step of the way.”

“Not that _we’ve_ ever had any trouble with the bratling,” Ratchet grouched, holding an unconscious Jolt under one arm as he joined the small circle. Huffing, he glared at Jazz. “Once _some_ one taught him how to sneak around . . .”

“What? He wanted to follow me!”

_:He let me have more fun than you old rusted crankshafts.:_

Several “old” heads whipped around to glare at Bumblebee, who was plying his “I’m innocent and cute!” act at them. Sam, however, blinked up, looked over, and cleared his throat. “Should I move?”

“Yes,” several voices said at once, the closest of which was Prowl, who carefully “scruffed” Sam as he would a Sparkling, careful to grip fabric and depositing him in Kup’s hands while he then effortlessly pulled Bumblebee to his feet. “So. Old, are we?”

_:And rusted.:_

Jazz was leaning on a tree, laughing too hard to stand straight. Optimus sighed. “Prowl, you can take care of him.”

“I thought that I was still on medical leave. You take care of it.”

Lennox and Epps’ respective jaws almost hit the floor at the casual disregard of Optimus’ order. The leader, however, threw his head back and laughed. “Primus! Put me in my place, will you?”

“By the looks on the humans’ faces, you haven’t had someone talk back to you nearly enough. I _can_ outrank you, within a certain set of circumstances, just as Ratchet is able to.” Prowl looked at Bumblebee, then began to analyze the damage to the mech’s arm. Grunting, he motioned to First Aid. “Did you see this?”

“In passi-wow! Primus on a brick, why didn’t you tell me it was that bad?!” First Aid moved swiftly to hit all the emergency seals leading into Bumblebee’s arm, numbing it, then physically detaching it and holding it out from his frame as he drained fluids into a bag. Bumblebee blinked, wavered on his feet, then flung his left, and remaining, doorwing out to compensate for the missing weight. He looked at his shoulder and sighed, shoulders drooping.

Sam, who had been put down by Kup almost as soon as the old mech had held him, patted Bee’s leg and looked up at First Aid. “Can he still wash with his arm gone?”

“Yep. Just careful not to get too much water around anything with a blue or red lead like these ones here. Blue is energon, which is flammable, red is electrical, and I’m sure you know how well electricity and water mix. Green is hydraulics, and that’s safe enough.” He smiled, gently resting his hand upon the yellow helm to comfort the mech and turned, walking away with Bee’s doorwing and arm, leaving the young duo behind.

“C’mon. Let’s get you washed up, yeah? You’ll feel tons better.” Reaching up and tugging on one large finger, Sam grinned up at optics which slowly lit into their normally-ready smile. “C’mon, Bee.”

Human and Autobot officers watched as the young man and young scout walked off in a companionable fashion, jostling each other lightly from time to time, playfully enjoying each other’s company. Lennox shook his head. “Looks like they’re a good match for each other. Sam’s still a kid and playful, which Bee looks like he needs around him, and Bee is responsible and unyielding, which Sam needs.”

“They’re life-friends,” Sideswipe said, grinning to Bluestreak, who threw his head back and laughed. “And will probably be as inseparable as Bluestreak and us in a year or two.”

“Primus forbid,” Prowl groaned, walking off in another direction, Jazz at his side and teasing him mercilessly. _:I’m going to enjoy some time with Jazz, Prime.:_

Turning and offering the human officers a ride, Optimus replied, _:Of course. I’ll only call if there’s an emergency. Working some things out between you two?:_

_:Yep. I chewed your aft out two nights back for not telling me that he was alive. His turn. Not that he suspects it.:_

_:Times like these that I’m glad you’re not a Decepticon, devious though you are.:_

_:Well . . . you know my story, Prime.:_

_:Yes. I do. Any news on Barricade?:_

_:Soon. Soon is all I know, and all he’ll tell me.:_

_:Mm. Well, you take care of Jazz, then; I have two irritated humans to appease.:_

_:You have the harder job, I fear.:_ Cutting the connection, Prowl looked to Jazz levelly. “You, my mate, are in a _Pit-load_ of trouble.”

Jazz then knew that he hadn’t escaped the wrath of his (admittedly) gorgeous lover. He sighed and prepared himself for the lecture.

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Yeah, I was planning to upload it today for you all anyway, so yeah, sorry that I’m a tease. Thank you all for your reviews and watches! I’m seriously forever grateful for your attention in reading this officially-out-of-hand runaway train of a story. Hopefully, I’ll figure out how to bring certain concepts out into the open for discussion or musing. It’s all about lining up the right circumstances, which is currently a tangled ball of yarn in my head._

_Song: “Take Me Away” by Globus, from their aptly-named album “Epicon.”_


	13. Designs Arc 5: Caledonia

Optimus sat cross-legged late that night, facing a select group of individuals around a fire that a handful of humans were building. He contemplated their action. Fire was an essential to the human race. It signified many things to them, and not everyone was able to fully express what fire was to them. There was the fact that fire was, quite obviously, able to warm an area, and to keep occupants warm. Then there was the fact that it cooked food, making inedible meat into something that the human digestive tract could break down.

Maybe it was because of those two basic needs that were ingrained in human nature that they insisted upon building it now. It was for comfort. He smiled, looking over to Bumblebee, who insisted on making his way over to the group, even though he was still missing his arm and doorwing. Optimus sighed and Prowl took over without missing a beat. “I will be officiating this semi-formal meeting.”

“Wait, not Prime?” Epps asked, frowning.

Optimus let Prowl answer as he reached a hand up to steady his fosterling as the yellow mech sat down. “Right now, Optimus’ duties as Bumblebee’s sole Caretaker trump his duties as Prime. It’s a luxury we can afford at the moment.”

_:And it’s a necessity and a responsibility I have towards you, my little one.:_ Optimus looked down into the startled optics of his scout, who scooted closer and leaned his damaged side against Optimus.

_:Thank you. I might be grown, but there are still moments where I miss having you hovering over me.:_

_:Careful. I can do that again.:_

Grinning, the young Autobot ducked his head and vented air, leaning against Optimus a bit more, relaxing when the powerful arm curled around his shoulders, deftly avoiding damaged areas in order to portray “I’m protecting you now, so you rest.”

“So even though everyone had a hand in raising Bumblebee, Optimus was his primary caretaker?” Lennox asked, leaning on a branch that he was waiting to put on the fire.

Prowl looked to Optimus at this. It wasn’t necessarily information that the humans were privy to, and yet . . . Optimus deflected the look to Bee, who, to all appearances, was drifting into recharge. His words, however, were alert. _:I don’t want them to know about Megatron. We need their trust, and we can’t have them doubting us. They know that we can’t tell them everything about Cybertron and our customs, and they understand that, since we can’t know everything about Earth and her diverse customs, only what we experience and research.:_

The Prime spoke. “Elita One and I raised Bumblebee as our own after he was orphaned. One of my brothers, who has since passed on, was another direct caretaker for this Spark of mischief.” He cupped the smaller helm to his shoulder, smiling. “Primus, but he makes me proud.”

_:Stop it, you’re embarrassing me.:_

_:Deal with it, Sparklet.:_

“But you three had a lot of help,” Ironhide said with a chuckle.

“You, especially, were a great help. And it was always amusing to see you teaching recruits, looming like Death over them while—”

Someone shot a hologram to life, showing _exactly_ what Optimus was describing. Bee “startled awake” at the sudden light, blinking owlishly at the sight. The humans leaned forward to see the “home video” of a clearly-younger Ironhide snarling at troops, guards, who were trying very hard not to be distracted by a white and silver Sparkling that was valiantly trying to scale the black leg of his Guardian. Bee groaned and facepalmed.

“Awww, that was Bumblebee?” Lennox teased, getting a one-finger salute in response from the scout-officer. “He’s adorable!”

Sparkling-Bumblebee got as high as Ironhide’s knee before he was scruffed and pinned carefully between arm and chest while the black mech continued to lecture the troops. The child squirmed and chattered, pushing at arm and chest to try to get free, but all that got him was a light tap on the back of his helm in rebuke, which caused him to whine. The view shifted to another set of optics, it appeared, and Ironhide groaned. “Oh, Primus. It’s _this_ video.”

“What video?” Epps asked, unable to tear his gaze away from the sight of a completely alien world, seeing how different everything was compared to Earth, and why every mech who had seen a sunrise or sunset for the first time just plain gibbered about the experience. There was no sun.

Then hell broke loose. Streamers of what could only be paint in the most obnoxious of blinding yellows, greens, pinks, and oranges leapt from several locations, all aimed directly at the pristine black mech, who saw the paint, but couldn’t avoid _all_ of it. His young guards, however, panicked and began to try to avoid the paint, which only served to foul it up even more. Snarling, Ironhide moved, just enough to try to keep paint from getting onto the Sparkling Bumblebee, but he couldn’t avoid the ribbons of black paint either, which turned the garish nightmare into something a bit more artistic.

Someone snickered at the sight out of the sight of the humans, causing Ironhide to pick a rock up and hurl it at the offender, grinning when the clang and gasp of dismay of armor being dented reached his audios. 

The video continued on to show Ironhide holding Bumblebee up, seeing the Sparkling covered in yellow and black paint, his face holding a diagonal streak of black over one optic, the rest caked in yellow. The rest of his frame was much the same, but the Sparkling was blinking at the now-dry paint, blinking at his yellow and black fingers in awe and amazement before chittering something to the Captain of the Guard, whose shoulders sagged in response. Ironhide narrated in a tone that indicated that he had lost a major battle, “And that was when he decided that he _liked_ that color combo.”

“All because of a prank. That sure set the stage for the rest of his life,” Sideswipe said with a chuckle. He stood to join his brother outside of the circle. _:Are we going to show the humans more of Cybertron?:_

Prowl glanced to Optimus, who gave it a moment of thought. _:I’m not sure that it’d be wise right now. Perhaps in the future, but we both have much to prove to one another.:_

“Who is Elita One?” Lennox asked as he toppled the branch into position carefully, brushing his hands off and moving to sit on Ironhide’s leg.

A series of comments, all favorable, overlapped one another.

“Sweetest Spark to ever on-line—”

“—amazing femme—”

“—headstrong—”

“—made even the _iciest_ senators and representatives thaw—”

“—had a Spark like the stars—”

“—fierce temper—”

“—her mech don’ deserve ’er—”

“—slaggin’ best frame design I’ve ever seen, and _frag_ , those curves—”

“ _My_ Sparkmate,” Optimus murmured, chuckling at all the complements to the femme, flicking a pebble at Jazz for his teasing. “And I _know_ that I don’t deserve her.”

“ _You_ have a wife? Naaww,” Epps said with a laugh. “You’re too stoic, man.”

Bee shook with silent laughter, then shook his head, transmitting a message to Jazz to say. Which the mech did. “Hah! Bee says that of the two of them, _Optimus_ was the troublemaker. Elita always teased about having to be the Caretaker of no less than seven Sparklings on any given day, and that _Bumblebee_ was the best-behaved of all of them!”

“Then again, she and Optimus always _could_ make Megs laugh on his worst days,” Ironhide mused, his gaze elsewhere.

The humans stared at the mechs in shock. “Megs, as in Megatron? As in the guy we killed?”

Ironhide winced, saw the look Optimus was giving him, and looked like he wanted to shrink in his armor. “Uh . . .”

“Yes, the very same,” the Prime growled. “My brother wasn’t always insane.”

“I’m sorry . . . your _brother_?” Epps hissed, eyes bugging out. Tonight was a night of revelations he wasn’t sure he wanted to process. “Wait. So you’re saying that this has been a family fight gone wrong?”

Bumblebee hissed and made a cutting motion to one side at that, shaking his head. He looked like he wanted to tell the story, and for the first time in front of the human military, showed his frustration at not being able to speak. He had a unique take on the situation, and _he couldn’t express it_. Slamming his fist against the ground, he stared into the fire, hearing Lennox’s voice echo in the silence. “Bumblebee . . . sir.”

It was the “sir” that caught the scouts attention. He hadn’t been addressed as such by any human before, and it seemed odd to hear it. Blinking at Lennox, he found himself seeing just a man, not the warrior, not the soldier. “I think that this is something classified above ‘Top Secret,’ and I think that we can wait to hear it until you’re able to speak.”

Shoulders sagged in relief, and he used the American Sign Language for “thank you.” Human compassion . . . what a gift from Primus. He felt Optimus’s hand rest on his good shoulder again, and he leaned against the mech, feeling a recharge start to hover around the edges of his consciousness. As the young mech drifted, he heard the conversation shift back to the topic of Elita, which lead to the other femmes that had been in their sphere of influence. Chromia. Firestar. Moonracer.

He gave into a Sparkling-type urge and snuggled in closer against Optimus’ frame, letting his chin drop to his chest as the last wisps of awareness drifted away into a peaceful fog.

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Very short chapter, and yes, it was mainly fluff. Sorry about that. I hit a dead-end with this arc faster than I anticipated, but in rereading the first arc, I found that I had a lot of stories that I can start to pull together and make happen. I have the next two arcs outlined with what major things I want to have happen. They could be as short as four chapters, and as long as eight, depending upon how deep I want to go with the specific plots._

_**“Caledonia”** by **Celtic Woman** was chosen because of the tone it carries. There’s a bittersweet, nostalgic emotion to it, and it’s a perfect segue into the next arc, BUT you’ll just have to listen to the song to understand **why** it’s the perfect segue!_


	14. Mnemonic Arc 1: Timshel

He didn’t know when he had been taken from the apartment, and he couldn’t recall anything past seeing his Caretaker, his Guardian, lying haphazardly on the floor from where he had tumbled from the chair after he had given up the will to live. But as Prowl onlined fully for the first time in days, he knew one thing for certain.

The mech staring down at him was one scary glitch-spawn.

And then he spoke.

“Easy, kiddo. You crashed pretty hard; we thought we’d lost two instead of one. Processor ache?” Scary Face had a surprisingly gentle regard towards him, but he had seen him from afar at the Academy, teaching two courses. He was _not_ a very easy mech to be around, and he was rumored to have the worst temper since Terratron in a foul mood. For that matter, this former Senator was rumored to have even won arguments against the Lord Protectorate.

Prowl nodded carefully, not wanting to joggle an already-sore head.

“You know what happened, son?”

“He died. He didn’t want to live. He took his life.”

Sadness crossed the stern face, and the stately, and still scary, mech nodded. “Yes. Yes he did.”

“But _why_?!”

That was when his processor tried to crash again, but . . . _something_ was prohibiting the crash. No. Someone. They weren’t in his mind, but they were . . . no. Hacked?!

He looked down at his wrist port, which he was proud of having for his Youngling frame, seeing the line running from his wrist to the former Senator’s. The chartreuse mech nodded once, slowly. “I’ve been a medic for many long years, kiddo. I’m not about to lose a Youngling. Your processors are balancing on a knife’s edge right now, and they will be like that for a while. But I want you to understand something: I’m here for you.”

“You could leave me just as quickly.”

That gave the mech pause, and at least he did Prowl the dignity of processing and thinking that accusation over before replying, “No, actually, I couldn’t. I have too many responsibilities, and too many things to enjoy on Cybertron. I may be close to being considered ‘old,’ but I don’t want to die just yet. I have too many ties to the living, kiddo.” Smiling, he rested his hand on the Youngling’s shoulder. “And now I have one more. You.”

Prowl couldn’t hold it back any longer. “Why are you being so nice to me? You’re the Devil Medic who has no Spark and goes out of his way to scare Sparklings!” A dark hope in the back of his head wished that he would be rejected because of his words. If his Caretaker didn’t find him to be worth staying around for, surely all mechs would feel the same way!

He was startled when the mech threw his head back and laughed, then seemed to catch on to his thought processes. The mech leaned closer, and curled his hand around the small helm, stroking his thumb against the light, expensive metal. “Oh, Youngling. I’m so sorry.” He seemed to form his answer, though, and then he gave it. “I was a medic in the last war, as you know. I hate war. But I had to survive, I had to live, and my patients had to live as well. I was angry at the war, and I’m still angry at the war. Even though a war may have a clear victor, the war never really ends for those who were in it.”

He paused again, trying to find the right words for his young charge. “I think that by being angry and grouchy at patients, taking out my anger at the war on them verbally because they were stupid enough to get injured . . . it made them mad at me, and they wanted to stay mad at me longer, so they lived. I’m an angry mech sometime, I’m grouchy a lot of the time _now_ because I don’t like the pacifist idiots that I’m forced to deal with at the Academy and in the Senate . . .” Realizing he was rambling, the mech rubbed at his face with his free hand. “But I’m not going to traumatize a mechling who has seen death so close to home.”

“But you’ll leave me. You don’t want me.”

Blinking blue optics at the child, he sighed, and said, “I have raised several Sparklings to adulthood before, and mentored many others. I’m tired of raising children, little one. But you’re not a typical child.” He had left his hand upon the small helm, and he tapped it gently with one multi-hinged and strong finger. “Your Caretaker had wanted a child who could think the way that he did. You’re a strong thinker, boy, and while you were out, I’ve been speaking with those who know you.”

“Nobody wants me.” Prowl looked up at the ceiling, then frowned. This wasn’t the ceiling of the medical ward he was brought to.

“I think you’re wrong on that. _I_ want you. And I want to finish raising you.”

“Will you force me to be a tactician?”

Chuckling once with a gentle caress of the poor child’s helm, Ratchet murmured, “Never in a thousand lifetimes. You get to be whatever _you_ want to be. Your mind is suited for tactics, it’s true, however, it’s also perfectly suited for being a medical researcher or a commander, and that’s just for starters. Your future isn’t fixed, nor is your profession. You choose your own path.”

“ _Why did he go?_ Couldn’t he see what _you_ see?” Prowl blurted, feeling a crash hovering around his mind again . . . and just as soon as he had noticed it, it was gone, swept away with a deft mental hand, giving him the time and the ability to grieve as any normal mech. “Wasn’t I enough to want him to _live_?!”

This time, the crash almost reached him, but . . .

_:Prowl, Prowl, hush, now. Easy, little one. Your processor can’t take many more crashes right now. Easy, now.:_ The voice of the medic was all around his mind, and he _felt_ the mech holding his mind together, keep the crash at bay. It was as if he was being physically enfolded by him, the larger frame shielding him from the explosions of pain and anguish. He clung to the presence, clung to the circle of peace and stability in his mind, feeling the soothing fingers stroking his brow before the medic’s own forehead rested against it, murmuring reassuring words both aloud and across the link.

Prowl finally keened his loss, crying and beating the chest of the large mech in anger, grief, desperation. He raged, knowing that this medic, this Caretaker, this mech who was _in his processors_ , was able to shield him from the crashes that would have otherwise come from the intensity of his emotions, comforting and holding him body and mind, keeping the pieces from flying apart.

.o.

Some time later, Ratchet closed the door to the spare room in his apartment softly, turning and walking into the lounging area, shoving fists onto hips and glaring at the mech sprawled over the main couch and perusing through a datapad. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The red mech didn’t bother looking up, because he didn’t need to know whose apartment he had entered without permission.

“I know, I know; I shouldn’t be hiding from my assistants in your apartment again.”

Silence.

“Especially since the last incident.”

More silence, longer this time.

“How is the boy?”

Finally, Ratchet was provoked to answer. “I don’t see why it’s any concern of yours, _Prime_.” He spat the title out, stalking over to his energon dispenser, making sure to be _thoroughly_ rude and not offer the leader a cube. “You only helped to bring that mech back to life, even though you _knew_ it was a bad idea! This is on _your_ head. Had you _paid attention_ to the mech, you would have seen that his mind was deteriorating! Primus above, I’ve _told_ you several times that you should look to your Second!”

Spinning to his feet, the Prime glared down at the medic. “You may be a senator, but I will _not_ tolerate impertinence from you, Youngling!”

“There is a child in the next room over whose parent _suicided_! My job is to take care of the _living_ , Sentinel! It is _not_ my job to play nice! If I have to be an utter bastard in order to keep someone _alive_ , slag _you_ , I _will_! Get out of my home! I have a Youngling to raise!”

“That decision has yet to be made if you will be given full Caretaker responsibilities over the boy!”

“Who _else_ will?!” hissed Ratchet, slamming the cube down on the counter hard enough to crack the crystal container. “Who else _can_?! His processors crash with the slightest imbalance! They’re more complex than what a normal Caretaker can handle, because he has to have a hardline reboot in order to come back to himself! And may I remind you that _that_ process is medic-only programming!”

Bristling, armor trembling with anger, the old leader snarled, “You are overstepping your boundaries, Senator Ratchet.”

“ _You’re_ intruding on my private property without permission, _and_ without announcing yourself.” He crossed arms over his chest, drawing himself to his full height and pointing one accusing finger at Sentinel Prime. “Do not forget that I had reached the status of _your_ Chief Medical Officer before the war ended.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, glares icy and promising no holding back.

A small noise interrupted the showdown, and the lithe little black and white form darted back behind the door. Ratchet sighed and glared at the Prime, then turned to follow the Youngling back into the room with a soft call. “Prowl?”

“I know him.” Prowl was sitting on the desk, legs curled up by his chest, arms holding his legs, sensor wings drooped to rest on the surface of the desk.

“Most people know of Sentinel,” Ratchet replied, moving to sit on the chair so that he could look up marginally at the Youngling.

“No. I _know_ him. And I _don’t_ like him.”

_Well, that makes two of us right now._ Venting air, Ratchet pulled out a small cube of enriched energon, spiced and sweetened to tempt Prowl into drinking it. He didn’t hand it to him, setting it down beside him instead. He didn’t want to manipulate or pressure him at all right now. But he was grateful when Prowl picked it up, peeled the seal off, and sipped at it before blinking and making a face of shock. “This isn’t normal energon.”

“It’s not high grade either. It’s just spiced and sweetened.”

“A treat?”

“No, there’s nutrients you need in there, too. The spices are there to mask some pretty unpleasant tastes; not all nutrition has to taste like chalk.”

“Oh.” His look of momentary appreciation drifted into a frown again. “Is _that mech_ still outside?”

“Yeah. He won’t go away.”

“Primus-forsaken spawn of the Smelter,” Prowl growled, sounding eerily like his Caretaker before the mech’s mind had degenerated. He set the cube down gently, and stood on his feet. With a fresh cycle of air through his vents and a visible effort to bring sensor wings up to a normal position, the mechling looked up at Ratchet defiantly.

“I don’t want to hear those words in this home . . .” Ratchet warned as the Youngling walked towards the door. “I _will_ take solvent to your mouth.”

He didn’t get an acknowledgment as the boy rounded the doorframe and glared at Sentinel, who stared down at him, but not coldly. Prowl waited. He wasn’t going to say the first word. Crossing arms over his chest, looking for all the world like a miniature Enforcer staring down someone caught doing something illegal. Finally, Sentinel spoke. “I’m sorry about—”

“You don’t deserve to say his name,” the Youngling hissed, staring him down. “Furthermore. I don’t want to see you. Ever. You drove him into killing himself.”

“Now, you can’t know that,” Sentinel said, his voice taking on a patronizing tone.

Snorting, the little black and white asked, “Did you live with him? Did you see him working at home? I don’t want to ever see you again. Get out. Ratchet doesn’t want you here. I don’t want you here. Leave. There’s the door.” He pointed to his left without looking, sensor wings stiff with emotion.

Sentinel Prime had never been treated like this in his life by anyone other than certain grouchy Senators and the officers that had been part of his command. He took one step closer to the mechling. “I don’t care if you don’t like me. I am Prime.”

“Only until Falimus Prime’s Matrix of Leadership states its next bearer as Terratron finds _his_ replacement. Then _you_ will merely be the mentor while _he_ takes on the leadership of _my_ generation.”

“You little—!”

The door to the apartment opened, revealing the silver and rather spiky Lord Protectorate with his tired violet optics. He blinked at the showdown, vented air, and called in, “Ratchet, you want me to let this little one ream Prime out as thoroughly as his sire could? Or should I just take Sentinel back to his mate and let _her_ take care of it?”

Whirling and glaring at his brother in shock that he _wasn’t_ going to automatically side with him, Sentinel opened his mouth to snarl something, which Ratchet cut off with his legendary timing. “Bring him back to Beta-Two; there’s nothing that can be fixed here right now.”

“Mm.” Terratron walked in with his distinctive limp to crouch at the Youngling’s optic-level. With a sigh, he rested a hand on the slim, young shoulder. For a long moment, there was only the meeting of blue and violet optics, watching each other and reading one another like open books. With a nod, the old mech murmured, “Strong Spark you have, little fighter.”

“I don’t fight.”

“Yet. But it never hurts to know how.”

“I don’t want to fight.”

One optic ridge quirked up in clear cynical disbelief.

Huffing and looking to one side, Prowl muttered, “I just run away; they aren’t as fast as I am.”

Terratron smiled and turned the small chin back to face him. “Someday, you won’t be the fastest. When you want to learn, tell Ratchet and he will find me. I don’t tutor anyone anymore since very few have the discipline to learn what I know, and I feel that _you_ will only settle for the best teacher.”

“You’re _rewarding_ him for—”

“Brother, please. Let the boy mourn, and let him deal with grief in his own way.” Standing with the creak of old joints, Terratron took the Prime’s elbow gently and guided him towards the door. “You _both_ lost someone dear to your Sparks last week; stop asking him for more he can give to satisfy your own grief. He will apologize for his behavior when he’s ready, which will more than likely happen _after_ you apologize for being intrusive. Sorry for this, Ratchet.” With that, he had Sentinel outside of the door, and he closed it with his free hand.

Prowl frowned at the interaction and at the door for a long moment before he began rubbing at the side of his helm. A larger hand cupped around his shoulder and gently ushered him to the mesh couch, settling him down before handing him the barely-sipped cube again.

“He’s been . . . gone . . . a week?”

“Yes. It’s been that hard for me to bring your processors back online.”

“Am I still in Praxus?”

Wincing, Ratchet shook his head. “No, kiddo, you’re in Iacon. The apartment in Praxus and all worldly belongings and funds were willed directly to you.”

“Will you ever be mean to me?”

The former CMO reached over and brushed his hand over the white helm. “Only if you need the kick in the aft, which doesn't look like you’ll need it that often. Finish your Energon.”

Obligingly, Prowl did so, his optics focused somewhere outside of time. He shuddered at the final grainy mouthful, but sealed the cube and set it aside. “Where will I continue my schooling?”

“Where you want to go; you have a lot of funds to your name right now. And despite what that aft-headed charity case says, there will be no contest to my adopting you . . . if that’s what you would like.”

Prowl didn’t respond to that for a long moment. He was still staring with unfocused optics. “Terratron . . .”

“Good mech, but a hard mech. He’s been a warrior all his life, and doesn’t always understand what it’s like to be a civilian. He’s in charge of Prime’s Guard, the Militia, and the Enforcer Chiefs all answer to him.”

“While you answer to Prime as a Senator and part of the Medical Division.”

“Yes.”

“Should I learn to fight?”

Terratron hadn’t taken on an apprentice since the death of his final fledged apprentice in the final days of the war. It had been almost a full generation since that point, and he had usually never taken anyone still in their Youngling frame. This was an opportunity of a lifetime, but . . . “There is no shame if you do not wish to learn how to fight.”

“Perhaps my words weren’t the best choice . . . Ratchet, should I learn to defend myself?”

Primus save him from this child. Ratchet’s optics smiled, even when the rest of his face was stoic. Prowl was a special one, no doubt, and it was a pity that the old Tactician didn’t have the foresight to see what this boy would be like. “What do you feel is the wisest choice to make?”

Ratchet could almost see the thoughts running through the boy’s head for a long moment, which was followed by a sharp nod. “It would be a prudent choice. I’m in a new city, I don’t know how to defend myself or if I will be bullied at my new Academy, and it would mean that I will have a new hobby.” Young optics met old, and the boy added, “What does Terratron teach?”

“Ancient styles,” Ratchet said softly, seeing the little optics light up in anticipation. “Ones that mechs haven’t openly practiced in generations. Traditionally, the Lord Protectorate will know several styles. I’ve tried asking Terra which ones he knows, but that’s something that he won’t tell anyone. I’ve heard that he won’t teach anyone more than one style, though, and they’re usually sworn to secrecy about what they’re learning.”

That caused the mechling to frown and look directly into Ratchet’s optics again. “You . . . don’t mind me having secrets?”

Chuckling, Ratchet stood. “You’re a _Youngling_. Of _course_ you’ll have secrets. But for now, you need recharge. It’s been a long day for you.”

“I . . . I don’t want to recharge in that room. And I want to learn from Terratron.”

The medic very wisely went along with the statement, encouraging Prowl to use more freedom in expressing his wants and needs. “Very well, I will let him know. I think your acceptance of his offer will make that old mech a very happy Spark. Let me show you where the dimmers are for the lights. If I have to get up for some sort of emergency tonight, or at any time if you are sleeping, I will have a close friend come and stay with you.”

“Who will they be?”

“Neighbors, musicians. They have a Youngling around your age. Femme is Techni, mech is Blues, and their child is Jazz. They’re pretty outgoing, since they _are_ a family of performers, so they might get some getting used to.”

“But . . . musicians are intuitive, too, right?”

Ratchet grinned and nodded. “They are. The worst that they’ll do is have you describe something as _you_ saw it to understand a new perspective, possibly for writing a song. But they will know what _not_ to ask you about unless _you_ wish to speak to someone else about it.”

Nodding, Prowl saw Ratchet rest his hand on a panel, then dim the lights in the lounging room, but turning up the decorational crystals just enough to let them dimly outline any edges. “Recharge well, Prowl. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Prowl nodded, eyes darting from one crystal to the next as he carefully lay down, feeling comforted by them. He relaxed his sensor wings, feeling the humming of the lit crystals harmonize. Their song soothed his aching processor into a deep recharge.

.o.

_:Oh, would you just look at the little scraplet? Oh, he’s so exhausted that he’s clicking, Ratchet. What a sweet Spark, so tender.:_

_:I know. I was expecting something to come out of my chewing out Sentinel, but you know how that bastard can get. I didn’t want to leave him at all for the next several days, but this meeting shouldn’t take up more than a few joors.:_

_:Musicians have sharp audios, old friend.:_

_:Too sharp, it seems. Thank you for helping me tonight. There’s a note for Prowl on the top datapad in that stack. He’s a quiet one, so I figure that reading will suit him while he continues to subconsciously process that his Caretaker is gone.:_

Techni nodded to the instructions, then asked, _:Can I introduce Jazz to him?:_

_:Probably not a good idea right away. He’ll need some time to adjust to Iacon, but if you want to take him out for a tour, I trust you to do that. He may need the distraction. And if he crashes, let me know. If he crashes in public, well, claim that he’s new to his Youngling frame and hasn’t gotten used to how much energon he needs to process to anyone around you, and carry him home. A crash is in no way fatal for him. I’ll meet you here so that he can reboot in a semi-familiar setting.:_

The femme nodded again, seeing Ratchet to the door and then turning to look at the blanket-draped and clicking Youngling lying facedown on the couch. She hadn’t seen a Youngling frame _that_ expensive since the last show she and her Bonded had done for some rich fop’s estate. They could even afford golden optics for the frame, which was absurd for a Youngling to have.

Shaking her head, Techni pulled out a datapad and settled on the free couch, staring at the crystals around her. She began to compose a song, but wasn’t so involved that she wasn’t aware of her surroundings. Just as the cycles clicked down to “day,” she heard young systems booting up almost-silently, and two pinpricks of blue focused with eerie intensity upon her frame. She didn’t pause her movements of composing until she heard him move, and then she looked up at him as if shocked. “Oh. Good morning, Prowl. I’m Techni.”

“Ratchet had to go?” he asked, not greeting her.

“Yes. He said that there was a note left for you on _that_ datapad.” She pointed to the stack on the floor by his head.

Blinking down at them, he pulled it up and activated it, reading the handwriting easily. “Oh. _Oh!_ ”

“Hm?” she asked curiously, tilting her head to one side as the boy sat up and pulled the datapads up onto his lap. She gasped in envy at seeing sensory wings. “Oh, wow.”

It was Prowl’s turn to look at Techni with curiosity and some little bit of shock. “What is it?”

“You have sensory-wings! I’ve never had the system for being able to handle those, but I’ve heard that you can _hear_ more with them.”

“It can get annoying,” was the droll reply, almost-adult in nature. “But they _are_ useful, I suppose.”

“You suppose?” Techni grinned and activated the sound of her composition. “Tell me what you hear.”

He listened carefully to the young song, focusing all of his listening and sensors on the sounds, but he couldn’t focus completely through the short piece. And yet . . . “Have you ever heard how crystals hum?”

The femme shook her head, smiling. “No. I wish I could, though.”

“Well, the sound of these crystals are interfering with the composition, but . . . it can be incorporated.” He moved closer to her, leaving the datapads on the wrinkled blanket, then focused on the crystals again before looking at the program on her datapad. “Um . . .”

She started a new composition for him, then handed him the datapad. His hand hovered over the screen for a moment before he looked up at the crystals again, then accessed his memory of the night before, of the harmonics. He pulled his cord out, filtered the audio from his memory, and then downloaded it directly onto the composition, unplugging and then hitting the button to play the sounds.

Techni’s optics shuttered and she stilled, her back straight, her head cocked just enough to one side that she was able to capture more sound, and her hands fisted. She smiled brightly, looking down at the Youngling with a grin. “Thank you. You don’t know how amazing that gift is to me.”

“You can use it, if you want,” he said shyly, handing the datapad back to her. “It would work with what you’re working on. The mood should fit.”

“How about one better? I can teach you how those harmonics work, and how to compose a song purely around those notes. And then, if Ratchet isn’t back by the time we’re done, I can show you Iacon?”

“Will your Bondmate and your Jazz be with us?”

“If you want them to. Jazz is boisterous, though.”

“Boisterous as in . . . ?”

“He asks a lot of questions and gets into people’s space. Constantly. I love the Youngling with my entire Spark, but he’s a handful, and your polar opposite.”

“Which means we could be great friends or bitter enemies.”

“Exactly.”

“Then I think I’d better wait until I’m feeling more at home here.”

“Wise move, scraplet.” She grinned and touched his hand. “Go get yourself some energon, though, and then we can start.”

He was up like a shot to the dispenser, and the femme smiled at his thin back. Ratchet knew what a gift this little one was, and he was wise to raise him. He’d be a tough and disciplined Caretaker, but already, it was clear that the boy would flourish under the different parenting style than old Detrious’ way of raising a Sparkling.

And this child would challenge that Senator like no other Youngling he’d raised.

.o.

Walking into his apartment late in the afternoon, Ratchet saw Prowl and Techni hovering over a single datapad, each taking turns poking at the screen and adjusting something until finally Prowl glared up at her and said, “No, it sounds better like _this_.”

“But that’s not proper harmonics!”

“It’s _supposed_ to be a _dissonant_ note to offset the otherwise-comforting sound!”

“Why would you do that?!”

“Because it’s how life is!”

That got the femme to shut up and blink. She raised her optic ridges, then looked down at the composition again. “And how is life, Prowl?”

“Dissonant when you feel that you’re finally at a point of comfort.”

“Mm. I see what you’re doing with this composition. It’s how you feel right now.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then looked down at the piece they had been working on, then down at his hands. “It is.”

She stroked his back, between sensor wings and careful not to touch either of them. “It’s all right, Prowl. That’s what this was about, too. Expressing yourself. Music can make you feel like you’re a Seeker, flying above a city, or that you’re a simple worker cleaning the streets on a bad day. But it’s also therapy. It’s also about healing at nobody’s pace but your own.”

“So this is all right?”

“Absolutely. This is a wonderful piece for a first attempt at composing.”

“Techni!” a young voice yelled, and a white-black-blue-red streak darted between Ratchet’s legs as a small Youngling ran up to the startled duo on the couch. “Ma, Blues won’ let me go ta the festival!”

And instantly, Techni shifted from compassionate teacher to firm Caretaker. “And you think that you will be able to go if you come and talk with me? Blues and I agreed that you’re not going after that prank you pulled at Academy last week.”

“But—”

“Are you going to whine like a Sparkling to me? Or are you going to start to prove that you want your adult frame and want to act like an adult?” She looked down at her striped son, giving him a long look.

“Sorry, Ma.”

“And where are your manners?”

Wincing, the little mech turned to Ratchet. “I’m sorry f’r intrudin’, Senator Ratchet.” He looked to the startled and wide-opticked Youngling on the couch, but paused with mouth open to introduce himself.

Prowl stared at Jazz. Something seemed to click when the other Youngling had entered the room. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t comfortable, either. It was a different feeling, something he didn’t understand. Both Younglings were oblivious to their Caretakers watching them, frowning. The orphaned mechling stared into the blue optics of the musical mechling, then recognizing that the feeling was originating from his Spark. But that made _no_ sense whatsoever.

On the other hand, Jazz had heard all the love stories. He knew all the tales of “love at first sight.” He knew what his Bondmate Caretakers had told him about how they had seen each other and _known_. The poor street-performer and the rich Academy honors musical composition student meeting at a music festival. He knew that’s what this feeling was _supposed_ to be.

And he was _not_ going to let it happen to _him_.

“’Sup. I’m Jazz.”

“Prowl,” came the reply. “I’m from Praxus.”

“Uh-huh. It ain’ as cool as Iacon.”

“You ever been?”

“Yeah. It’s _boring_ , nothing happens, an’ all the mechs there ’re obsessed with _nothing_.”

Neither Caretaker was fast enough to catch Prowl streaking across the room without a sound to attack Jazz, who wasn’t prepared for the taller Youngling to aim a punch directly at his optics, catching the side of his head and tumbling with him to the ground, clawing and screaming. “You’re wrong! You’re _wrong_! Praxus is beautiful! Only a mech with optics welded shut couldn’t understand!”

Ratchet and Techni looked to each other from the rolling Younglings on the ground, and both spared a grin at seeing the subdued mechling showing life before putting on Serious Caretaker Faces and pulling their Younglings apart with ease. Thankfully, Jazz hadn’t gone after delicate sensor wings. Or had he? Ratchet looked Prowl over for damage, seeing scratches from clawed fingertips, but nothing serious. There were the telltale signs that there _should_ have been some damage to sensory wings, but it looked like Prowl had kept them out of reach.

“Well, _this_ looks like it went well,” Blues said from the door, his deep voice wry. “I’d say that ya just had your aft handed ta ya, Jazz-mech.”

“He started it!”

“Physically, yes, but ya provoked it, son.” Blues, a stately silver mech walked into the room at Ratchet’s nod, expressive optics trained on his boy. “If ya tried to negotiate with Techni in an adult fashion, we were considerin’ lettin’ ya go ta the festival. Instead, ya came in here in a tizzy, without permission from Senator Ratchet, got inta a fight with his adopted Younglin’, an’ acted like a Sparkling. Apologize, an’ then ya’re comin’ home.”

“But I’m damaged!”

“Nuthin’ a few nanites won’ fix overnight. Apologize.”

Grumbling under his breath, Jazz faced Prowl and Ratchet. “’M sorry for bargin’ in, Ratchet, an’ f’r provokin’ ya, Prowl.”

“Will it happen again?”

“No.” _Yes._

“Mm-hm.” Blues looked to Techni, who looked skyward for patience with their son. “Ratchet, I have just a little more to teach Prowl before the lesson is over. With your permission?”

“Of course. Blues, perhaps tomorrow or the day after, would you and your family like to come with myself and Prowl on a day trip?”

“Your annual trip?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely, an’ it’d be an honor. Been forever since I’ve gone.” He pushed his son out the door, leaving his Bondmate in the room with the Senator and the orphan.

Ratchet sighed and leaned down to look at Prowl, who was staring at the floor. “I shouldn’t’ve attacked him.”

“Actually,” Techni said, “and Ratchet, stop looking at me like that, I think that it’s a lesson that Jazz has needed. He’s used to saying things and getting away with it because of myself and Blues. We’re well-known musicians with a romantic and wonderful story that everyone idolizes, and he gets a lot of grace when he doesn’t deserve it. He has to learn not to run his mouth and expect no repercussions.”

_:Techni, ask Prowl what he was feeling when he saw Jazz. Our son is weeping right now . . .:_

Frowning suddenly at her mate’s Spark-sent words, she moved to crouch before the mechling. “But tell me how this went from your perspective.”

And when he was through, Ratchet was staring and Techni was holding a shaking and keening Youngling on her lap, soothing him with a song. The mechling was upset over Praxus being decried, but confused over Jazz and what had happened. _:My love, when have Younglings ever known their Mate at such a tender age?:_ Blues asked.

She thought about it, helping Prowl’s shaky hands hold an energon cube up to his mouth, watching how Ratchet crouched to rest a hand on the white helm, watching him slowly calm down again. _:None of the “highborn” couples have any records of this happening to Younglings, but for the more common mech, there’s been an influx of them in the last several centuries. Two Guards, for example, and two common workers. You’ve heard of Ironhide and Chromia, of course.:_

_:Who hasn’t? Those two ’re practically one Spark. Who’re the others?:_

_:The other couple that I’ve seen and talked with are absolute sweetSparks. Orion and Ariel. They’re fresh into adult frames, and I believe that they’re set to Bond soon, if they haven’t already. Orion’s a dockworker, and Ariel oversees the drones in receiving for the same company, dealing with the paperwork and handling requests.:_

They fell silent for a moment, Blues watching through his mate’s optics how Prowl was bundled up into Ratchet’s arms, settling and curling close to the medic’s warm Spark. Within moments, he was in recharge. Ratchet didn’t put him down, though, taking as much comfort in holding a Youngling as the Youngling had taken in being held. _:So. What are we to do?:_

Techni grinned. _:Keep them around each other and work through differences as they come up. Jazz knows that his Spark and Prowl’s are mates. But I’m going to talk with a few people, see if he can be apprenticed to someone who’s resisted their mate for a while under the context of learning a secondary trade.:_

_:Mm. I’ll educate Prowl on what he needs to know about this. He does have an apprenticeship lined up.:_

_:Ah, so that’s what his reaction to your note was about.:_

_:Yes. It’s a secret for now, but it does mean that your son will have to watch what he says, or he’ll find himself sporting more than a few scratches.:_

Grinning, Techni nodded and stood, pulling out a secondary datapad and transferring Prowl’s composition onto it, leaving it with the stack he hadn’t even looked at all day. She left the Caretaker with his new charge with a smile and a wave, walking into her apartment across the hall, catching her son as he ran, keening, into her arms. “Oh, love.”

“I don’ wanna know who my Bonded is!”

“I know, love, I know.”

“It ain’ fair! It just ain’ _fair_! I wanted ta be an adult! I wanted ta be _surprised_ when I was an adult!”

“I know you did! And I was hoping it would be like my and Blue’s meeting.”

“But now I’ve screwed it up!”

Smiling, she pressed her forehead to her Youngling’s. “No, Jazz-mech, my sweetSpark, I don’t think you have.”

“But he’ll hate me!”

“Can I hate your father?”

“N-no.”

“Prowl won’t hate you. He won’t _like_ you all the time, but he won’t _hate_ you.”

“But _why_ do I have ta know my Sparkmate?! I ain’ even in my adult frame!”

Sighing, settling on the couch beside Blues and sandwiching their Youngling between their harmonized Sparks, she whispered, “Because maybe Primus wants you to be friends with Prowl for a long time before you’re able to Bond with him. Maybe there’s a bigger plan for you two, and maybe you both have to have a lot of experience before you’re ready to Bond. Being friends first is _always_ a good idea.”

“But you an’ Blues didn’ even know each other.”

“True. But you’re not the first Younglings to know your Bondmate years before you can Bond. And Ironhide, for example, really didn’t like knowing that Chromia, who is _just_ like him, was going to be his Bonded when they were training as Junior Guards together.”

“He . . . he didn’t?”

“They fought like two turbo-foxes over the last glitch-mouse. Which is _not_ what I wanna see between you an’ Prowl,” Blues answered, his voice kind but with a firm note. “He’s just lost his Caretaker, an’ had ta leave Praxus, his home. He didn’ even know he was in Iacon ’til yesterday evenin’.”

“But . . . why?”

“Prowl has some problems with his processors, and sometimes, he crashes pretty hard. He’s not able to reboot himself. It took Ratchet a full week to try to get him to reboot and not crash again.” Techni stroked the black helm of the Youngling, smiling. “His emotions are raw, and his Spark is hurting. If you can be a friend to him, not now, but maybe later, maybe you can help him make Iacon his home, for a while.”

“He’s gonna _leave_? No! I won’ let ’im!”

Jazz frowned as his Caretakers laughed at his words, and Blues said, “Ya can’t keep a mech anywhere he don’ wanna be, Jazz. But ya can encourage ’im. Dat kiddo’s Spark is still in Praxus, an’ it could be there his whole life. His frame is Praxian, his mindset is Praxian.”

“But he’ll go _back_ there soon?”

“Not soon. Maybe when he’s an adult, which is a while away.”

“Oh.”

“Now. It’s time that a certain Youngling needs to get himself some recharge.”

And when Jazz had left for his room, the Bondmates looked at one another and sighed. They hadn’t expected to be handling this sort of thing with their son for at least three more centuries. But they would be helping him as much as they could through it. And Ratchet, bless his Spark, was with them on it.

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Welcome to the Mnemonic Arc. And I guess you know what I’ll be covering from here on out: the memories and instances of the past between the Autobots and some Decepticons. It looks like it’s going to be a long haul, and I’m personally very happy that I’ll be able to write this out. This story has really taken on a life of its own! Thank you for your reviews and watches, and if I haven’t gotten to your review before this posted . . . that’s all right . . . I haven’t replied to any reviews from the last chapter yet. It’s been a busy few days. As always, I continue to hope that I don’t disappoint!_

_Song: “Timshel” by Mumford And Sons. Because the opening verses REALLY fit._

_Oh! And I’ll be in California for Botcon 2011! If anyone is going to it, come find me! I’ll be wearing a Jazz-inspired dress for most of the weekend . . . it’s PRETTY. This is the link to see the pictures and the preview of what I’ll be wearing, just remove the spaces:_

_Sinead . deviantart . com /art/ Jazz-Tribute-Dress-FINISHED-209218157_


	15. Mnemonic Arc 2: Awakening

Prowl stared _up_ at the Lord Protector, having not recalled quite how _large_ this old mechs frame was. His sensory wings trembled then stilled with trepidation at this first lesson in a completely empty room with mirrors lining one wall. Terratron stood in the exact center of the room, gaze closed and yet observant. He watched as Prowl gathered his courage and strode deeper into the barren room, coming to stand within reaching distance of the old master.

“I will teach you etiquette before we begin.”

“Yes, sir.”

“First: Do you wish to learn all that I can teach you?”

“Yes, sir, absolutely.”

“Then as you are my student and apprentice, while we are training, I am to be addressed as ‘Master.’ When we are outside the walls of this room, the relationship we will share will show other dimensions. I may ask for your help for running paperwork around when you’re not working on projects and reports for your education, which is your first responsibility, above even what I have to teach you. I may ask you to join me merely for conversation. I may call you for an unexpected training session. If we are outside the halls, I am Lord Terratron, unless we are alone.” And he smiled, melting from his frigid façade just a hair to reassure the mechling before him. “If we are at your home, or you are with me in private, I am Terra, as my friends call me, which I hope we will be able to become.”

Prowl filed all this information away with a nod. “Yes, Master.”

“Good. When you open the door to enter the room, you bow. It doesn’t matter if I’m here or not. You will bow to respect the discipline that the room represents. You will enter. You will then turn like so and close the door behind you, and kneel to one side of the door if I am not here and have not left instructions for you.”

“May I ask a question, Master?”

“Yes, for now.”

“Why isn’t the door automated?”

That wasn’t a question he had heard often from his students, and Terratron smiled openly. “Because it shows us that it is through our own personal actions that we can affect the world around us. It shows us that we have to take action in order to proceed through the doors and opportunities in life that are presented to us. It shows us responsibility, because you are then responsible to close the door behind you. It shows us that there is a beginning, and an end, to all things in our lifetimes.”

“Life and death.”

“Yes.”

Prowl thought this over for a long moment, then nodded, moving back towards the door and facing it, his serious nature almost comical in such a young frame and young Spark. But Terratron had trained young Sparks like his before, long ago. He remembered how they turned out and the fun-loving friends that had gathered around them during their journey of life.

Resting his hand upon the door, Prowl opened it, walked back through it, and closed it again. There was a pause, a very brief moment, and then the door opened again. Prowl bowed, facing Terratron, then walked through it, turned with precisely-measured movements, and closed the door, standing beside it.

He knew this to be a very serious endeavor, and wished for it to be done _right_. Terratron nodded once, sharply, barking, “Enter.”

Moving in measured, swift, sure strides, the apprentice stood before his master at a loose parade rest. Terratron released the air in his vents to ask, “What do you want to learn of me?”

“Everything you can teach me, Master.”

Odd answer. Well, at least he was _staying_ odd and not just being odd at odd moments. “Why?”

“For self-defense, for something to do, for training my mind, and to keep myself alive if I don’t want to live anymore.”

“Why do you fear that you will lose the will to live?”

“Because it happened with my Caretaker. And I do not wish to die.”

“You fear death.”

“I fear the _process_ of death, but not death itself.”

“You have thought this out very deeply.”

“Yes.”

Circling the Youngling and watching him from every angle, the Lord Protectorate wondered if he had found his replacement. He would watch, and he would wait and see how this would develop. This may just be another student, albeit an extremely gifted one with need of training to bring himself to his full potential. “I do not usually teach Younglings, as they will have to relearn much when they upgrade to their adult frames.”

“My current Caretaker has told me this.”

Such adult words from one so young. “What else has he taught you?”

“Your students are only taught one style, but it’s never said what style they are taught by you, and what styles you know.” Prowl stared straight ahead, knowing where Terratron was by the resonance of his Spark against his old frame, using the unique sensors he possessed in his stubby “wings” that rested behind each shoulder.

“Will you regret holding secrets from Ratchet?”

“He has said that he is unconcerned with any secrets I may have in regards to being your apprentice. I would not hold a secret from him that could cause harm.”

Completing the circle, the old mech took that in stride. “Then I give you permission to practice openly before your Caretaker, and only in front of him. More than just that, I give you permission to speak to him regarding everything that you do here.”

“Then why would he be all right with my keeping as secret, if you are not going to hold me to secrecy?”

“It is his willingness to respect you so readily that gives me cause to trust you both with discretion. Do not cause me to regret this.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Have you done any research upon which style you wish to learn?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Tell me.”

Drawing in his breath, holding it in his vents, Prowl replied, “Circuit-Su, Crystalocution, Diffusion, Metallikato, and Pit Fighting.”

The variety of styles were boggling, but they overlapped. “That is a lot to learn, and most of those styles are _very_ different from one another. It could take lifetimes to master them.”

“I want to master two styles before I upgrade to adult. I will do so.”

“Why do you wish that?”

And Prowl had no answer. So the old Master didn’t press the issue. “Very well. We will start with the basics that you will need no matter what form I begin training you in. Kneel facing away from the mirrors. Focus on the wall. Venting air, cycling it properly to cool all systems effectively, stilling processors and calming Spark. No talking, no questions.”

Unfortunately, it would seem that Prowl had more patience than even Terratron had at his extended age, because the boy settled into the meditative form with ease.

What a gift.

.o.

“So the boy found his Sparkmate?”

“And they do _not_ like each other. Techni is taking him around Iacon now.” Ratchet sipped at a rare vintage high grade, savoring the taste while Terratron sat across from him at the kitchen table, talking about how the lesson had gone today.

“Huh. That makes sense, now.”

“What makes sense?”

“He wants to learn five styles . . . I’d say that he wants to fill his time up and not deal with certain individuals.”

“Well, I gave him the stock answer when I told him that he was going to have to ask you what you could teach him. Which styles?”

“Oh, just the five that I know and have mastered myself.”

“Primus above, that child . . .” Ratchet chuckled and shook his head. “Well, he wants to be away from Jazz as much as possible, and I’ve heard that the feeling is mutual. But you know how we are. We’ll end up ‘accidentally’ meeting up somewhere, or ‘accidentally’ be all free to go somewhere on a trip. Those two need each other.”

“Jazz is a smart-mouthed brat who needs to learn stillness, and Prowl is a still and quiet mech older than his years who needs to learn what it’s like to have fun and get in trouble.”

“Yep.”

“Primus.”

“Yep.”

“Those two are going to be quite the pair.”

“Yep.”

That was when Terratron grinned broadly. “Oh, but I have _just_ the solution for them.”

Ratchet took one look at that face, saw the grin, and took a long swig of high-grade. It would burn through his system before the joor was out, and he had the feeling that he didn’t want to have a straight processor when he agreed to whatever plan Terra had schemed.

.o.

Prowl was advancing through Diffusion rapidly, mastering the first and second forms within the quarter-vorn. He seemed to have the perfect processor for using someone’s force against themselves, which probably came from having his sensory wings snagged, hit, or harmed in some way through accidents, or through scuffles with other children. Ratchet had spoken of the scratches that Prowl had on his paint after the fight with Jazz, how it looked like there should have been damage to the wings, but Prowl had kept them out of the way.

But the boy needed a sparring partner. And a challenge.

Having spoken to Jazz’s Caretakers, he had found out that the child, when pressed, would use Diffusion-like tactics, and had been doing that since he was a Sparkling and would get into tiffs with other children. His small size was frustrating in many ways, but the good outweighed the awful, culminating in a conflicted, active child who could use focus exercises and settling down. 

So, on a day where both Younglings were at Academy, Prowl having been intrigued with laws and politics on the everyday level and taking extra courses in Cybertronian Law and Jazz working towards getting his first degree in music theory, Terratron sat the Caretakers down and outlined his plan. Ratchet, who had known of the general idea, almost spat his Energon out at the full breadth of it. “Primus!”

Terratron grinned while the Bonded pair conversed silently about the prospect of this. It would give the still-at-odds children a structured place where they _couldn’t_ just lash out at each other without serious repercussions. Then they nodded their agreement to the proposal, with Blues speaking. “We’ve raised two Sparklin’s before, but neither-a dem were as much of a han’ful as Jazz.”

“Every Spark is different, and every Spark needs a different approach at being raised.”

“Shouldn’t Prime be the one who knows the most about this?”

“Have you _talked_ with him recently? Primus _above_ , that mech . . .”

Ratchet sighed. “They wouldn’t know, Terra.” Turning, he looked at the couple and released air in a sigh. “In confidence, Beta isn’t doing well. My mentor has been there constantly, and she even asked me if I would consider helping them with seeing if we can extend Beta’s life. But the femme . . . she’s ancient, and she doesn’t have the Matrix to help keep her alive. She doesn’t want to live past the years that Primus have given her. Her Sparkpulse is slowly deteriorating.”

“Which is why I am revealing that I know as much as I do about the AllSpark and about the nature of Sparks, which is aside from my understanding from a martial arts perspective.” Terratron sipped at his low-grade. “I had always hoped that I can live to see the next Prime and Protectorate, but with how Beta is faring, I now understand the fear that my predecessor operated within.”

“Because once Beta has returned to Primus’ Bosom,” Techni whispered, “there will be precious little time for the new Prime and Protectorate to acclimate to their status of brotherhood and partnership over an entire planet if in the occasion that Sentinel is to join Beta swiftly.”

The ancient mech nodded. “Yes. And that is why I also feel that these two children _must_ be friends and _must_ work together. I don’t have the same prophetic tenancies as a Prime, but I _do_ understand Primus’ urgings. Those two are special. They have known each other for a quarter-vorn and _still_ are at odds, despite all your meddling. They know that they are to be Bonded somewhere, sometime down the road, but they don’t _want_ to be. I admire that. But Prowl and Jazz have unique Sparks. Prowl _may_ be my replacement, but I can’t tell at his current age. I feel that their meeting while so young, and that Prowl was all but handed to _you_ , Ratchet, is no mistake.”

Silence fell, and the mechs and femme were absorbed into their individual thoughts. Ratchet looked to one of his oldest friends. “Terra, what will we do?”

“Send Jazz over as soon as he has come home.” He brushed his hand across a decorational medal, which tumbled precisely onto the table. “Oh look. I dropped this. Whoops. Guess you’ll just have to have him return it to me.”

Snickering, the quartet split ways on that note.

.o.

Prowl entered the training room, mind on what he was reviewing today as he went through the motions, then paused and _stared_. But the pause was only a micro-breem in length, hardly noticeable, as he turned, closed the door, and knelt beside it for the lesson to finish. But it didn’t finish.

“Good! Prowl, enter.”

Walking, wings held stiffly behind him, the Youngling walked up to his teacher and bowed. “Master.”

“I was just explaining etiquette to Jazz, and you provided the perfect example for how one enters and how one will exit. Thank you.”

“It was my honor, Master.”

“Mm.” The boy was being perfectly neutral and perfectly distant. Terratron indicated a stretch of mirrors that Prowl seemed to prefer above any other place in the room. After many long vorns of occupying this room in one context or another, he knew that those mirrors were just the ones that one could see the entire room from. “Run through the first two Forms. Kneel and face me when you are through and I shall oversee what exercise of the Third Form you have yet to perfect.”

“Yes, Master. Thank you.”

“Go.”

With that, Prowl bowed, straightened, turned without seeming to even move, and walked to his stretch of mirrors. Terratron looked to Jazz. “So. If you feel that you understand how one is to enter my realm, demonstrate it.”

“Why?”

“Because your parents wish for me to teach you, but I will not teach you if you refuse to obey my instructions. Exit the room. Enter it properly. Now.”

Prowl was able to hide his grin through a form, then stilled his face and moved through the sweeping, but refined motions with his usual exactness, picturing his opponent making the moves that he would be countering. He heard Jazz move towards the door reluctantly, exit, enter, and return to Terratron.

“Did I say you could enter?”

Pause. “No?”

“Then go back. Exit. Come through. And wait by the door for me to call you to enter.”

Again Jazz went to the door and went through it, then came back. “May I enter?”

“No. You are going to go through that door until your movements indicate that you understand the exercise.”

“ _What ___exercise?!”

“Are you arguing with me?” The usually-neutral and usually-kind voice of the Protectorate lowered into a dangerous growl that indicated just what sort of protecting this mech had done in wars past.

“N-no, sir.”

“No, _Master_.”

“No, Master.”

“Return through the door.”

And again through the door Jazz went. Back and forth for almost a joor, until Terratron saw his brow pucker and he stared at Prowl instead of ignoring him. Both Younglings had ignored each other instead of acknowledging that there was another Youngling in the room.

Prowl, at this time, was meditating with optics off, focusing on his venting and cooling, on his very Sparkpulse, feeling _life_ , feeling . . . not whole, but no longer as broken as before. He was past ignoring Jazz, and was focusing just upon the act of _being_. When Jazz was watching both of them in the mirror, Terratron took one step towards Prowl.

Blue optics lit instantly, but there was no other movement. They didn’t need words. Terratron nodded once, Prowl moved liquidly into forms, pausing if he wasn’t sure, then moving slowly through the motions after he saw the example from his mentor. When he reached the end of that, he watched a new form from Terratron, once, mirrored it on the second time, and on the third time, followed the motions with the proper limbs. At another nod, he bowed, then turned to the mirrors and began to focus on the new form, pausing and restarting if he felt his balance going, or if he felt that it wasn’t right. When he committed the motions to his memory, he went through the new form set from start to this point twice.

During that time, Terratron seemed to be ignoring Jazz. “Seemed” being the operative word, of course. The kid was watching with rapt attention as Prowl slid between motions with a supernatural grace. He crept closer, but didn’t dare come too close. Prowl was dangerous now. It was easy to see it.

And then he was scruffed, and Terratron moved him back to the door. “Again.”

“You didn’t even have to talk to him!”

“No. Because he doesn’t need words right now.”

“But—”

“Silence! You have too many words and you _aren’t_ listening to those around you! Communication is _not _one-way! It is _not_ one mech always saying everything and another always listening!” Terratron snarled, finally tackling the problem that the Caretakers were just too soft-Sparked to deal with themselves and had asked help with. “You have to _hear_ the words that people are saying to you! You have to _especially_ hear the words that they are _not_ saying to you! Now! You will learn to enter this room with humility, with respect, and with honor of what you are to learn before you go home!”__

__“You can’t keep me here!”_ _

__“I have permission from your Caretakers to keep you in lessons tonight until I am sure that you have absorbed what I have to teach you.”_ _

__“Master.”_ _

__Terratron looked up at the interruption, blinking. “Yes, Prowl?”_ _

__“Sometimes . . . it’s hard to intuit what an instruction really means.”_ _

__Terratron drew in a breath and released it. With a nod, he motioned for Prowl to proceed. Prowl looked to Jazz, then said something that startled the old mech. “If you don’t want me to teach you, tell me now. Because teachers can only teach someone who is willing to learn. And so far, you don’t look like you’re willing to learn.”_ _

__“You’re a slaggin’ pain in the aft.”_ _

__“Fine. You can walk through that door all night and not understand why you and I have to walk through it in a specific manner.”_ _

__“Actually, you both leave for home together. So if one of you is finished, the other will have to wait for them.” Terratron rested his hands on his hips._ _

__Whirling to look up at his teacher, Prowl’s jaw dropped in shock and dismay. He had wanted to go over some medical law texts with Ratchet when he had gotten home before they both went to recharge! He was about to protest, but he caught the words and the actions before they came to life, and he gusted air out through his vents. “I understand.”_ _

__“Mm.”_ _

__Jazz grinned smugly. “Guess we’ll be here all night, ’cause I sure ain’t listening t’ _you_.”_ _

__Prowl _glared_ at the smaller mech, then hissed, “You’re a righteous one to think that you can call _me_ the pain in the aft.” Without permission, he spun on his heel and returned to running through his stances._ _

__Terratron looked down at Jazz. “If you continue to irritate Prowl, you won’t like what he’ll unleash on you. His wit is as sharp as yours, and right now, _he’s faster_. I can forbid him from fighting, or defending himself, but that would only neuter the lessons I’m teaching him.”_ _

__“So you’re gonna compare me to Prissy Perfect-aft over there like _everyone_ else does?”_ _

__“Stop saying aft. And no. He is flawed, and he understands his flaws and strives to work past them. His flaws are his own to know. _Your_ flaws, well, you advertise them to every mech around you, whether they want to see the flaws or not.”_ _

__“I do not!”_ _

__Prowl winced. Even though he didn’t like Jazz, he knew that their Sparks were right for one another. And he didn’t like causing pain to others. But before he could ask Terratron for help so that Jazz could process that he _was_ rather open about his faults, the old mech continued to speak. “Your caretakers are two of the best musicians that Cybertron has seen in three ages, but you feel like you can never measure up to either them, or to the two siblings who are living out musical careers in Polyhex and Kaon. Your insecurity shows through your words, your actions, proving to everyone around you that you don’t want to be compared to your Caretakers, or to anyone else. You fear that you will never have a reputable career in the arts. And you also _particularly_ hate the fact that your Bondmate-To-Be is a mechling a little younger than you.”_ _

__“He don’ even _smile_! How c’n I trust someone who don’ even show ’is true _self_ around others!”_ _

__Prowl jerked as if he were physically hit, and he looked down, then turned away, hiding his face from Jazz._ _

__“You obviously do not wish to know Prowl. He shows his emotions, but you do not see them because you do not take the time to know him. You’re impatient. You’re brash. You prove yourself to be obnoxious.”_ _

__“Stop it!”_ _

__“You want to learn from me, Youngling, you will hear what I have to say! You can change yourself! But you cannot continue along this path of self-destruction! This path that you’re on, this _selfish_ path, leads only to hurt and pain! You will hurt _yourself_ , and you will hurt _everyone around you_! Starting with _that_ young mech who still grieves over his Caretaker, and _still_ he is ridiculed at his Academy, scorned, bullied because of his circumstances, because he has to balance advanced processors that refuse to sync up properly, and _especially_ because he thinks differently than everyone else in this Primus-forsaken city! He _can’t_ show his emotions because his processors can’t handle them!”_ _

__Jazz’s optics were torn away from Terratron to look at the mechling standing with hands clenched, sensory wings trembling with the urge to keep _something_ from showing, head bowed and hidden even from a reflection in a mirror. The black and white Youngling felt something in his Spark twist at seeing the pain that radiated from Prowl. It was a pain that was almost too personal to witness._ _

__Terratron’s voice was softer as he admonished, “You have hurt him, you know. You and he can have much in common, and you _can be_ the friends that you will each need as you progress through life. But you have to stop alienating him.”_ _

__“But I’m being compared to him all the time.”_ _

__“Are you? Or are you making your _own_ comparisons in your mind? I do not compare my students to each other.”_ _

__Jazz looked down at his hands, shut off his optics, and reviewed his mind, his thoughts, his interactions with Prowl. And he winced, looking up at the mechling still trying to ignore the words that were probably still echoing in his audios._ _

__He had made _such_ a foolish mistake. One grand, sweeping mistake that could cost him the one relationship that he would need for the rest of his life. Jazz looked at his hands again. He didn’t understand why they walked through that door. He didn’t understand the subtleties all the time. He liked having too much fun to pause and stop for the details in life._ _

__But . . . Prowl loved those things._ _

__And weren’t Sparkmakes opposites that rounded each other out?_ _

__Before Jazz could talk himself out of it, he walked up to Prowl and put a hand on his shoulder, opening his mouth to apologize, but he found himself hurdling through the air, with Prowl quite literally pouncing on him while still air-borne, pinning him expertly, face scrunched up with pain, with frustration, a silent keen vibrating through his frame, all the way down to the fingers that held Jazz’s head to the ground._ _

__“I’m sorry! Prowl, I’m sorry.”_ _

__Terratron didn’t intercede. This was something they had to work out on their own. He watched as Prowl slowly let that information process, limbs relaxing, before he shifted off of Jazz, but didn’t stand. He looked away from the small mech, face pressed into hands. Jazz stayed where he was, then moved closer, peering around the small shoulder and up into his face. Blinking once, then sighing, Jazz moved to sit cross-legged beside Prowl, waiting for one long moment. Making a face, then stilling it, having decided that he had seen enough sulking, Jazz began to peel one white finger away from the white face at a time. “C’mon, open up. I said I’m sorry.”_ _

__“No,” Prowl whispered, looking away._ _

__Jazz had been raised to respect others, but he had never really listened to that until today. He understood now that if you _didn’t_ respect them, Bad Things Happened. Sometimes, even Really Bad Things Happened, and someone was really hurt. So he didn’t give up trying to look into Prowl’s optics. “C’mon, please? I’m really, really sorry. I didn’t really understand what you’d been processing.”_ _

__“You never asked. So of course you couldn’t know.”_ _

__“Well, I’m asking now.”_ _

__“You don’t want to know.”_ _

__“Why?”_ _

__“Because then you’d hate me.”_ _

__That sent Jazz for a loop. _Prowl_ was worried that _Jazz_ hated him? That wasn’t right. Jazz worried that Prowl really hated him. “I . . . I’m not sure that I could hate you.”_ _

__One optic moved slowly up to his face, but Prowl still remained turned away._ _

__“I don’t know how to like you right now. But I can’t hate you.”_ _

__His head turned and he looked down at the small silver face. “Really?”_ _

__“Yeah. D’you . . . d’you hate _me_?”_ _

__“No.”_ _

__“Oh.”_ _

__They stared at each other for a long moment, and not even Terratron could move from his spot. This was a moment he treasured. Sparkmates, even unBonded and young, were learning at this age how to respect one another. There really was something supernatural about this process, and he hadn’t felt this since his own sweet mate had passed into Primus’ arms. Even holding her that in those last moments was a magical time, feeling the Bond _not_ dissipate, but instead . . . fill with something _different_. It may have been that he was a Protectorate, it could have been just because of the close nature of their Bond._ _

__“I might still get angry at you.”_ _

__“Same here.”_ _

__“But . . . I wanted ta ask ya, c’n ya help me with the door thing? I really, _really_ don’t get it.”_ _

__Prowl thought about it for a moment, then nodded and stood with Jazz, organizing his thoughts as he moved. “It’s all about respect, Terratron told me when he started teaching me. And . . . I understand that now more than before . . .”_ _

__Before the a quarter-joor was through, they were on their way home._ _

____

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Well, this was fun. I really enjoyed writing this chapter, primarily because I knew that I had to work two things out: “How did Prowl learn martial arts?” and “How did Prowl and Jazz first learn to work together?” That was the premise for this chapter, and I’m not quite sure where I’ll go for the next one._

_As always, thank you for “paying” me with your reviews! They’re always a joy to read! And for new watchers, thank you many many times over for reading my story! I really am grateful for every person who enjoys this._


	16. Mnemonic Arc 3: Eternal

_**Author’s Note:** There will be a mention of “underage drinking” in this. It’s approached in a certain manner with a lot of thought put into it, so if you disagree with me, please make sure to read the extended Author’s Note at the end of the chapter._

_As always, thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who is reading this, and to every new reviewer and watcher, thank you so very much! I didn’t realize that I had gone over 100 reviews until I checked the story stats earlier this week! You guys are so stinking awesome! If you get the 200th review, let me know, and I’ll plan something special out with you!_

.o.

Jazz stared at the back of Prowl’s helm during class, watching how the wings were twitching. Neither of them had wanted anyone to know that they _knew_ who they were going to become for each other when they were older. After only a few orns of being around the young mech, Jazz was slowly coming to understand how he operated, and what was bothering him the most.

“I heard that he never had any friends at his old Academy, either. Nobody wants to be around a mech who can’t smile.”

“He’s stuck-up. See that? He doesn’t even think that we’re worth noticing.

“What a snob. Praxians are the worst snobs on the planet.”

“Could be worse. He could be from _Kaon_.”

“Hah, not _that_ much worse off!”

Prowl’s sensory wings trembled, then stilled. Jazz’s optics narrowed at that sign of stress.

“I heard he didn’t even keen when his Caretaker suicided.”

Slamming his bookfile down hard enough that the screen spiderwebbed, Jazz snarled inarticulately and picked the rest of his things to move to the table where Prowl sat alone in the study-hall period. Dropping things down haphazardly, he gave a glare to the startled and gossiping mechs and femmes. “Slag-processored aft-kissers think that ya know everthin’. Go purge under Smelter’s hammer.” He sat down facing Prowl, trying to calm himself down from the sudden rage.

But Prowl wasn’t watching him. He was shuffling the scattered datapads into a neat pile, but his hand hovered over the broken one, fingertips not touching the flickering screen.

“They don’ get it.”

“Neither did you, until two weeks ago,” Prowl replied, still not looking up. “Why’d you break it?”

“Didn’t mean ta. Got frustrated.”

“Mm.” He looked to his own books again, reading further on a few laws, clearly able to concentrate more on his studying now that that the other Younglings had stopped talking about him . . . or maybe perhaps because Jazz had taken up a place at his table.

A datapad slid into his view, the glyphs for “spar later?” written upon the surface. He picked up a stylus and replied, “Maybe. Have to talk to Ratchet when I go home tonight.” His white hand slid it back to Jazz’s black one, picking up easily where he had left off in the law text, getting through two pages with a frown before the tablet returned to his hand. “What will you be talking to Ratchet about?”

He looked up to Jazz, then shook his head, pushing the tablet away without replying. For that, he got a stylus jabbed between two fingers and close to a gear. Hissing, he glared at the smaller mechling, hearing everyone still behind them, knowing that they had been watched the entire time. Jazz pointed down at the tablet, a firm look on his face.

“Pain in the _aft_ ,” Prowl muttered, dragging the tablet back and writing out, “Praxus. Memorial for old Caretaker is in a week. Don’t know if I want to go. Don’t want to have crashes. Now stop asking me about it.”

There was a moment of silence, then Jazz nodded and returned to his studies, leaving Prowl to himself for the rest of the period, which was thankfully the last session of the day. Gathering their datapads and storing them in subspace pockets that made them the envy of their class because their frames _could_ support the novelty and their Caretakers could easily afford the gift of the generators, the duo walked out to the front of the large building, taking a left once outside the gates.

“What’s it like to crash?” Jazz asked as they aimed towards their apartment building. He swung his arms with loose movements, probably about to demonstrate a dancing move while they walked. “I mean, is it painful?”

Shaking his head and walking “normally,” not realizing that his gait was stately enough to turn heads even at his young age, Prowl replied, “It’s just . . . blankness. I’m stuck inside my mind, stuck inside one thought-process, which is why I need to be rebooted by a medic. Ratchet literally has to be in my mind to help me through things and to break that cycle of thinking.”

“So it’s like bein’ stuck in a night horror.”

“Well, yes. Because it’s usually the really negative emotions that will send me into a blackout.”

“Sadness, anger, grief?”

“The extremes, yes.”

“And what about the happy emotions?”

Prowl frowned and looked away. “I . . . don’t know. I’ve never felt happy enough to think that I would crash.”

Jazz stopped his motions completely, looking at Prowl with sad optics. “Yo’ sayin’ ya never felt so happy that ya could keen with joy instead of pain, mech?”

Turning to face his almost-friend, Prowl shook his head. “That would be the truth.”

“Pit, mech, _why_?”

Prowl had no idea how to answer that question, so he just shrugged and turned towards home again, not realizing that the shorter mech had just taken that bit of knowledge as a challenge. They returned to their home, where Prowl went with Jazz to his apartment first to drop off the broken datapad, and then both walked the short distance to Ratchet’s apartment, opening the door and walking in to see the mech draped over a couch. Freezing, Spark pounding in fear, Prowl darted forward to rest his hand over the chest of the mech who had taken him in.

Did he lea—

“Nmph. Prowl. Sorry.” Ratchet reached up and rubbed the little white helm, which lowered itself to rest over the warmly-pulsing Spark of the medic. “Sorry, I forgot what this could have looked like. Had to cover a shift for a friend after the Senate session today . . . bad accident on the roads today . . . Sparkling was hurt, but will live.” The medic looked up at the door where Jazz stood with a curious expression upon his face. “Hey, Jazz.”

“You all right, sir?”

“Mm-hm, just tired from a long day.” Ratchet didn’t move until Prowl was calm again, and then he sat up with a smile, movements tired. “I miss being a medic sometimes, but after days like today, I’m reminded why I chose to teach instead. How was Academy?” Pulling out a couple treats for the Younglings, he handed one to Prowl, then tossed the other to Jazz, who caught it and came closer.

“They were bullying Prowl again. I put a stop to it.”

“Oh? I see no damage to either of you. I assume that words were enough to stop them?” He kept an arm around Prowl as they spoke.

“Yeah. This time. But I don’ wanna see it get to be more’n words.”

“Prowl?”

“It’s hard to talk to them when they already have their minds closed against any other reality but their own.”

“Yeah, Iacon kids kinda suck,” Jazz agreed, flopping onto a couch. “They’re smart, and they’re big on politics, but at the same time, they’re also big on cliques. I think that we should start our own, Prowl.”

“Open-door policy,” the Youngling muttered in return, rubbing at his helm.

Reaching over, Jazz stilled one hand. “Processor?”

“Yeah.”

“Ratchet! Ratchet, I got it! I got the answer for you!” an excited voice yelped as the mech ran into the apartment, startling everyone in the room. A compact mech with armor covering _every_ inch of his frame bounced lightly into the room. “Oh! Perfect timing! Prowl, hi, I don’t know you yet and you don’t know me, but I have heard _so_ much about you, and I’m so excited to finally meet you!”

“Uh . . . who’re you?”

“I’m Wheeljack, Ratchet’s research partner.”

“And the largest pain in the aft I’ve ever met,” Ratchet replied with a chuckle. “My best friend. Prowl, I asked him to see if he could do something about your processor setup when you upgrade to an adult.”

“You can _do_ that?” Jazz asked, moving to sit on Prowl’s other side, leaning elbows on knees.

“Within certain boundaries,” Ratchet replied, smiling. “Wheeljack is one of the best upgrade-minded mechs in engineering that we have, and he loves working with medical for working around certain design issues that don’t work themselves out.” He rubbed between Prowl’s doorwings reassuringly. “But we can talk about that later, if you don’t feel like dealing with it now, Prowl.”

“No. I want to stop crashing.” He let himself lean into Ratchet’s gentle ministrations, taking comfort from the Caretaker, even though somewhere in the back of his Spark, he felt like he was betraying Detrious. “I don’t want to have to upgrade into an Adult frame too fast, though . . .”

“Don’t worry! We’re still just planning things out and getting the concepts down right now,” Wheeljack said, fins on the side of his head flashing in time with his words, which was distracting Jazz. “I was able to get multiple simulations up and running for a variety of setups. There will always be the possibility of a crash, since this _is_ unfinished technology, but—”

“Unfinished technology?” Prowl interrupted, leaning forward slightly. “How?”

“Your processors are cutting-edge, and have been since the moment you were Sparked. There’s still so little that we know about how far we can push design tolerances. With your processor-setup, you had the distinct chance that your Spark could have rejected the processors, _and_ the advanced warfare and tactics computer that you have hard-installed into your main processor. _That’s_ the main problem. It doesn’t recognize emotions.”

“Wait. Advanced _what_?” the Youngling hissed, leaning forward. “He designed me with _what_?!” Glaring up at his current Caretaker, Prowl demanded, “Did you know about this?”

But the look of shock on Ratchet’s face was enough to convince him. “No, Prowl. No, I didn’t. I knew that it wasn’t your stock computer, but _this_. . . Primus, what was Detrious _thinking_ giving a battle-computer to a _Sparkling_? No _wonder_ you constantly crash!” He sighed and looked to his friend. “Jack, what are we looking at for options?”

“Well, I’m not entirely sure _yet_ , but at least we’ve IDed the problem.” Leaning in, he added hastily, “I’m not calling _you_ a problem, Prowl, but rather the specific setup of your processors. I’m not even sure we can upgrade you out of crashing. _But_ , we can _try_. And with Ratchet on board, that means that what we can do is get it to a point where you won’t crash _nearly_ as much, _and ___it’ll be a faster fix than if we were working on this for you without his help.”

“Can I make any and all final decisions?” Prowl asked after a moment of silence.

Jazz stared in shock at the mechling beside him. “Mech, ya can’t ask that . . .” He was cut off by Ratchet and Wheeljack’s chuckles. “Can he?”

“Every upgrade I’ve worked on, I’ve had input on by the mechs in question. I can’t say that I will give you the last word, Prowl, because of compatibility issues we may or may not have. However. I would _love_ to have you in on our planning sessions. It’d be good for the frozen-hydraulicked oldtimers to see what it’s like to have some _fresh_ insight.” Standing, the mech spared one final glance to Ratchet, then walked out, waving once over his shoulder.

For two full breems, the mechs were silent in the room until Prowl spoke up again. “I had wanted to discuss laws with you, but I didn’t realize how exhausted you were, Ratchet . . .”

“I apologize, Prowl. Tomorrow?”

“Yes. Do you mind me sparring with Jazz in the larger spare room?”

“Make sure that the berth is folded into the wall, and just don’t break any of the crystals again,” Ratchet replied indulgently, standing with the hiss of his tired systems. “I’ll recharge early, then. Make sure that you get some low-grade before bed. See you tomorrow, and you as well, Jazz.”

“Thank you,” Prowl replied, watching as Ratchet walked off to his room, closing the door behind him.

“Prowl, d’ya know that not even my Caretakers treat me as adult as he treats ya?”

“It just occurred to me, yes. I . . . I really appreciate him as my Caretaker, Jazz. He’ll never be Detrious, and I’m _glad_ that he won’t be, but he’s . . . he’s _my_ Caretaker now, and every day, it feels like his Spark is more aligned to mine, as if he’s always been there.”

“Ya sound like a femme.” Jazz grinned and aimed a fist at Prowl’s side, which was blocked with a grin in return. With that, the Younglings took off towards the spare room.

But Ratchet, on the other side of the door, sank to his berth and buried his face in his hands, limbs trembling as he gave thanks to Primus for the gift that had been handed to him in the form of a Youngling. What a gift.

.o.

The inevitable happened. Beta-Two passed away quietly, held in the arms of her beloved, leaving him behind as she embraced Primus.

Ratchet contemplated the high grade sitting on the table before him, hearing Prowl enter with his usual barely-noticeable sounds. The Youngling paused at seeing him, then walked up to take up a seat beside his Caretaker, vents gusting air. “Terra told me, and canceled today’s lesson to be with his brother. And you don’t have high grade unless you’re either having a great day, or a day that you want to forget.”

“Primus, you know me far too well already.”

“I live with you. And I heard Wheeljack coming and leaving last night.”

“He had news.”

“About Beta-Two?”

“About your frame. He forgets normal hours when he’s on a project that he enjoys.”

“Are you and him thinking about becoming mates?”

Ratchet turned and stared down at the black and white Youngling with shock on his face. “That’s not . . .”

“Relevant to any conversation, I know. But you’re both so _close_.”

Huffing and sipping his Energon, Ratchet muttered, “He’s close to me. He’s . . . it’s not like Jazz’s parents . . . or you and Jazz, for that matter. He and I complement each other, and we’ve had enough spats and arguments to get through our problems and _see_ each other.”

“You want to be mates.”

Making a quick decision, Ratchet answered, “Prowl, I’m going to talk to you like an adult. You process like one already, so I’m not going to beat around the bush. Yes. I want to Bond with him. But I’m afraid to. I don’t have a good history with relationships.”

“Because of your anger.” Prowl nodded, then looked up at the mech. “But your anger takes on _meaning_ when you let someone close enough to your Spark to _understand_ it. You explained your anger to me; it’s part of you, part of your flaws. It’s part of why I find you to be the best Caretaker for me, because you _don’t_ refuse to show your emotions. And you may lash out from time to time, but you’re not . . . you’re not _evil_ about it.”

Taking another gulp of the liquid, Ratchet abstractly wondered where the Pit this conversation had gone from Beta to Wheeljack. “So, what do you think I should do?”

“Why do you ask me?”

“ _You_ have the processor for planning things. Mine is for reference, for medical records, and for acting in the moment.”

“I’m a Youngling.”

“Only for another vorn; that’s not a lot of time.”

“Only another vorn?” Prowl whispered. “But I haven’t even started learning a second style from Terratron yet.”

“Would it be so terrible to _not_ succeed with flying colors on something?”

Prowl gave this thought. It would mean that he wasn’t the best. It would mean that everything Detrious had taught him, from being the fastest mind, the quickest learner, down to being simply another mech who wasn’t able to keep to an innocent promise. He bowed his head. “It . . . shoots sideways across a few straight wires . . . but I would not put off upgrading simply for trying to finish learning a second style. I will inform Terratron at the appropriate time.”

Reaching an arm around the Youngling, Ratchet pulled the stool to his side and settled him close, pulling an empty cube out of subspace and filtering a small portion of high grade into it. “Here.”

“Why?”

Smiling, Ratchet murmured, “When I was a Youngling, one of my Caretaker’s Caretaker’s Caretaker had passed into Primus’ arms. She was a femme who had been beloved by many, just as Beta was. All Younglings in my family were allowed their first taste of high grade to honor her memory. It’s raising a glass to the memory of a Spark who had brightened so many lives.”

“So . . . this isn’t drinking to celebrate, per se, and it’s not drinking to forget.”

“No. This is drinking in honor.”

“High grade has a _lot_ of significance behind it, Ratchet, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it truly does, Prowl.”

He leaned forward to sniff at the Energon, wincing and wrinkling his olfactory sensor shielding at the different smell. “It’s potent.”

“I can sweeten it if you’d prefer.”

Shaking his head, Prowl took up the cube and looked at the color of the energon, seeing the glints of energy and of the liquid reflecting and refracting the light shining though the crystals. “I’ve been curious about what it tastes like.”

Ratchet raised his own cube. “To the memory of Beta.”

“To her memory,” Prowl murmured, and they sipped at the energon together, the elder humming with pleasure at the taste and how it hit his tanks, the younger getting a mouthful down and coughing before shuddering. Ratchet looked down at him with amusement written over his face, but the Youngling shook his head and glared down at the energon again, heaving air through his vents before he said, “I know there’s a trick to it.”

“Yes. Sip. Don’t chug like a heathen. Show some dignity and refined manners.”

Grinning, the Youngling looked up at his Guardian with a bright expression before saying, “Dockworkers chug.”

“Dockworkers are _adults_ and have built up an understanding of the taste of high grade. They chug back some potent stuff.”

And Prowl sipped at his first taste of high grade energon again, enjoying the second, then third and final taste of the stuff under Ratchet’s careful optic. Of course, the medic had given the mechling just enough that the boy would find out what a hangover high grade could give you, but not enough to be dangerous or too little of it to make the event frivolous.

The next morning was going to be interesting.

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** In America, there’s a taboo on anyone drinking under a certain age in some areas, even if it’s supervised by parents. I’m from an Irish family that came from alcoholism, and so we really didn’t have any drinks at family gatherings. But what I’m referencing to here is a respect of alcohol that many European countries hold. Your first tastes of alcohol were with your parents at family dinners, at weddings or funerals, what have you. In my personal opinion, I feel that this is the best way to introduce and model responsible consumption of alcohol to children. Of course, I didn’t drink until I was 23, and two years later, I enjoy a glass of wine or mead or some fruity girly drink every so often, and always with company or with friends._

_And of course, from Prowl’s words in this chapter, he understands that Ratchet doesn’t always “drink responsibly.” No individual is perfect, but they can do the best that they know how to in order to model responsibility to their children or those whom they mentor._

_TL;DR: Drink responsibly. Don’t be a lush. And teach your kids responsible drinking within cultural boundaries. With love, your (possibly) local author._

_Song is “Eternal” by Evanescence, one of their instrumental songs before they came out with their first mainstream album._


	17. Mnemonic Arc 4: One and Only

Prowl felt his frame slowly boot up and begin cycling through the various checks and booting procedures that were preprogrammed in. He felt the energon drip in his arm being pulled free, followed by two sets of professional hands touching along nerve lines, running over every inch of the frame to make sure that everything was in perfect working order while he continued to boot up.

He lit his optics to see Ratchet in his medic mode scanning his hand over his helm, moving it down to his chest to see how the new processors were doing. Nodding, he looked at the no-longer-Youngling with a smile starting to dawn in the cold optics. “I don’t want you squishing those new sensory wings of yours. Up!”

Slowly, moving cautiously so as not to harm himself, Prowl looked down at longer, stronger limbs that held thicker armor. They felt . . . not heavier, but . . . stronger. More durable. Now he could actually spar with Terratron, instead of shadow-boxing. But . . . Jazz still hadn’t upgraded. So they couldn’t spar anymore. That sent a wave of sadness through his Spark, but it was only for a moment. Jazz would upgrade soon enough, and then they would be able to spar again.

Pausing, he moved carefully to look at the frame that he had just vacated, blinking and seeing the almost-frail limbs, the limp sensory wings. Looking to his own now-larger frame, he wondered how he had not managed to get squished in all the squabbles between himself and Jazz.

Looking to the observation window to one side, Prowl saw Jazz’s awestruck face pressed against the glass, with Techni and Blues grinning behind him. Ducking his head shyly, Prowl followed Ratchet and Wheeljack’s instructions as he got to his feet and moved cautiously through a few exercises to gain equilibrium and understand the current flexibility of the fresh frame. He looked down at his hands again, seeing how they moved and fisted in a new way. He had to get into the training room to stumble around a little more before he felt confident again.

“How are you feeling, Prowl?” Wheeljack asked, watching the new adult carefully.

Assessing himself, Prowl looked up at the engineer, then to his Caretaker . . . and smiled. He murmured, “Like myself.”

.o.

Jazz remembered the first time that he thought that Prowl would make a good best friend. It was a precious moment in his Spark, one that he held dear and thought of every night before recharge. But it was when he saw the adult face of the mech who would be his Sparkmate that he felt himself begin to _love_ Prowl. The shy smile, the gentle, hesitant openness . . . it was like watching the opening moves of a live concert. The tentative notes beginning to rise through the atmosphere, making way for the bold themes.

He felt Techni’s hand stroke along his back as Prowl walked outside the room, blinking _down_ at Jazz before grinning mischievously and scruffing Jazz, who yelled in indignation, only to plop the other black-and-white on his shoulder. “You kick my wings, I throw you into a wall.”

“Put me down!”

“No. You won’t be able to keep up with me when I walk to Master’s, and he wanted to see us as soon as I was out.”

“Pain in the _aft_. . .”

“Stop saying aft.”

“Make me!”

“Sparklings!” Ratchet barked, gaining their attention as the other Caretakers laughed at their friendly bickering. “ _Thank_ you. I have to get back to work at the Senate, Prowl, but I want to meet you tonight at home after your lessons. With a grin, he looked to Jazz. “And you, sir, have been gifted.”

“Wait, what? How?”

Ratchet pointed to Wheeljack, who was grinning broadly, the fins on the side of his head flickering with his giddiness. “I’ve asked permission of your Caretakers to help create a frame for you.”

“You . . . what? _Really_?”

The white mech with the garish orange and green detailing nodded. “Of course! One day, you and Prowl will be Bonded, and I do this because I wish the best for both of you. I have a few processors that I think you would like to take a look at. They’re suited for music and for composing, and I’ve _heard_ your compositions! They hold so much emotion! But anyway. They’re also uniquely compatible with Prowl’s setup, so that when you’re both ready, there won’t be many issues with . . . well . . . _that_.”

Jazz snickered while Prowl’s wings flared straight upwards with indignation that interfacing was spoken about so _readily_ around them.

“Get used to it,” Ratchet said, reading the freshly-upgraded face without needing a pause. “It’s part of life. Now. Go! Terra’s not a patient mech for anyone!”

As Prowl strode off, his gait and posture _precisely_ the way that it had been before he was upgraded, Jazz called back, “I wanna see whatcha have planned, ’Jackers!”

Motioning an affirmative, Wheeljack looked to Jazz’s Caretakers, who smiled indulgently after the duo, who had taken up bickering all over again. “They’re a good match.”

“I stand by my opinion that they will either kill each other or balance each other out perfectly once they’re mature,” Ratchet said with a sigh, resting his hands on his hips. “Primus, I forgot how it felt to see a Youngling upgrade. Spark-wrenching.”

“Mm. I’ll walk you to the Senate; I don’t have any more upgrade appointments today,” Wheeljack said, nodding to Blues and Techni, who looked like they wanted to take off themselves. They were still very much in love with each other, and with their schedules, finding time to be with each other as a couple was hard.

Ratchet turned and walked with his oldest friend. “You only walk with me somewhere if you feel you have to address something with me.”

“I do. I’ve seen more of you in the last vorn than I have in the last seven. Why?”

That was _not_ what Ratchet wanted to talk about. Growling something noncommittally, he glared off away from Wheeljack. He didn’t want to discuss this right now. Not right after his Youngling was beginning his life as an Adult.

“Ratchet.”

“Nn.”

“Stop avoiding this.”

“I’m not avoiding anything.”

“Slag on a shingle.”

“What the Pit would you have me say?!” Ratchet exploded, glaring at his friend. “What do you want to _hear_ from me? All I have are excuses!”

“You started pulling away from me when Quera started showing interest in you. And then she left you in a pained, mangled heap after she probably found out that she couldn’t fix your temper and your finances were tied up in medical research and investments. You cut all communication with me. Why, Ratchet? _Why_ did you cut me out of your life?”

He couldn’t answer that. Looking away again, the medic didn’t try to answer anything. He _couldn’t_ answer it. How could he even _begin_ to tell Wheeljack about . . . about _everything._

“Do you not want me in your life anymore?” Wheeljack asked quietly, systems starting to slow to a scared whisper.

“No! No, Jack, that’s not it.” Stopping and looking at the younger mech, Ratchet spread his hands apart in a helpless motion that indicated that he had no words, no way to speak about this.

“But that’s what it looks like to me. I don’t want to lose your friendship. I like working with you, but if you can’t work with me, if you don’t want to work with me and . . . and _something_ tells me that you are just being _difficult_ about something . . . I want to know. I don’t want to be left in the dark because you can’t or won’t handle something.”

That was _it_. “Primus fraggit, Wheeljack, I can’t just be your friend! I want too much out of our friendship, and I want too much out of _you_ , and I _can’t_ have it! You have several femmes that are looking for your time, for your companionship, for your _love_ , and I’m just an old, bitter mech who doesn’t deserve you, and is done fooling himself that he _can_ have you.” Turning away, armor laying flat with despair, Ratchet murmured, “I can’t have you, ’Jack. You’re the one mech on this forsaken ball of metal that has ever made me feel like . . .”

“Like you’re worth loving?” Wheeljack asked softly, coming up beside the former CMO and looking up at his face. “Pitfires, Ratch, why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“Because I’m a bitter old mech who doesn’t believe in love anymore.”

Snickering, Wheeljack shook his head. “Stubborn old mech who refuses to be optimistic, more like.”

“You’re the only one who laughs my anger away.”

“And Prowl logics it away. I’ve seen him calm you down from a full rage before. It’s amusing.”

“You were eavesdropping.”

“Only twice! Or five times. About there. You two are meant to be Caretaker-and-Child. He’s been good for you, Ratch.” Shrugging, Wheeljack added with a little bit of wary hopefulness to his voice and manner, “And . . . you ever think that someone could feel the same way about _you_? That _you_ were the one that could never be attained? Won over?”

Ratchet looked slightly downward at one of his oldest and most steadfast friends, sighing and looking more tired and more his age than at any other point in his life. He didn’t know what to say to that, but the expression on his face was enough for Wheeljack. He brushed the back of his hand against Ratchet’s— a comforting gesture between close friends that bordered on something more.

“You’re a grouchy, crazed medic who finds amusement in macabre situations and can’t stand this peace but doesn’t want another war, doesn’t want to see another mech die under his hands. You miss the rush, but hate the consequences.”

“War didn’t end for me,” Ratchet whispered, looking away again.

“Or me. C’mon, we can finish this talk later. But I want you to at least _think_ about what I’ve said, okay?”

“That a bitter old mech might have a not-so-secret-admirer?”

“That a bitter old mech may have to warn his protégé off and away from the apartment in a coming night.”

Ratchet stalled, and stared down at Wheeljack, who was grinning mischievously. “I’m too old for this.”

“Not yet you aren’t. Not if _I_ have anything to say about it. Remember that I renew frames as a living.”

“Oooh, you just want to get under my armor.”

“And as quickly as possible.”

Laughing, shaken out of his mood, Ratchet clapped Wheeljack’s shoulder and they continued on to the Senate. Sometimes . . . maybe . . . it would be all right if he just let himself _go_ a little.

.o.

“Again.”

Prowl moved through the stance as directed, mind focused in the _now_ and moving with speed he had _never_ dreamed of attaining.

“Again.”

He repeated the motion, daring to push his new limbs to obey him and _stretch_ , slaggit!

“Again!”

Clenching denta at the ache beginning to set in, he obeyed his teacher.

“Again!”

Ache was worse. Meant that he was now beginning to really make sure that his frame was going to be looser and more flexible on the morrow. Didn’t mean that he _liked_ it.

_“Again!”_

Roaring at the pain that now ran fluidly through his systems, Prowl did _more_ than just that kata set and finished with his fist centimeters from Terratron’s face, vents heaving with exertion, limbs steady but sensor wings trembling with exhaustion.

The old mech’s violet optics quirked up in a smile. “Go stretch out. Good. You’re putting your will above the limitations of your frame.”

Nodding, Prowl did as instructed, while the Lord Protectorate turned to watch the other talented young mechling in his training room. Jazz had a more fluid style, due to his parentage and how they trained him in dancing. It made for a very interesting combination with Metallikato. Jazz didn’t seem to want to know more than just one style, which was a relief. He wasn’t sure that Jazz had the mindset for it, but he had the talent for being a fighter, that was truth. Correcting him gently, he let his mind wander as he stepped back and watched his students.

They were complete opposites, and yet they were both similar. Feeling a tug on his Spark from his brother, then a shamed silence, Terratron murmured, “I have to see to my brother. Jazz, finish practicing this set. Prowl, once you are finished stretching your new limbs out, bring Jazz home.”

“How come _he_ brings _me_ home?” the littler mech grumbled, eschewing etiquette in his irritation.

Terratron, who had seen this behavior many times in his long years, replied, “Because he’s upgraded first. You, Jazz, are still in a Youngling frame.”

“I’m older.”

“Age is nothing to our people, and you know this. Maturity is everything.”

Silence met his statement, meaning that Jazz got the message. Prowl met Terratron’s gaze and nodded once. There was something going on under the surface with Jazz, something that would take some coaxing to bring it to the surface and deal with it. Nodding once more, he paused, and murmured, “Primus bless, mechlings. I will see you tomorrow.”

Both turned and bowed to their master until he left the room. Straightening, they looked to each other, then completed their exercises in silence. Prowl finished first and waited at the door for Jazz, who finished, then sighed and rested his hands on his hips. Turning, looking to Prowl, he asked, “Do you see me differently?”

Quirking an optic ridge, the stoic mech replied, “You’re smaller.”

“But do you _view_ me differently now that you’re in an adult frame?”

“No. Why would I? You’re _you_.”

Walking over, Jazz opened his mouth, then paused. Prowl stood and opened the door for them both. “Let’s get some energon and talk about this. I’ll send a message to your Caretakers and mine that we’re just taking our time home.”

“You know, I’m jealous.”

Prowl paused, bowed in unison with Jazz towards the training room, closed the door, and then looked _down_ at the mechling, frowning. “Why?”

“You got your adult frame before I could. I know thatcha have . . . had . . . prolly still _do_ have issues with ya processors, but . . .”

“It’s hard for you deal with being older in age, but smaller in size.”

“I don’t want to be taller than my Caretakers. Small mechs can get into places that large mechs can’t. It’s bein’ in a different frame-type that’s got me ’bout set to snap.”

Falling silent, Prowl walking at Jazz’s pace, enjoying a “leisurely stroll,” he contacted their Caretakers, told them that he was taking Jazz to a café after training, and that they would be home before their respective curfews. He was surprised at how happy and yet how easily they agreed with him, letting him be an adult in this.

He looked down to Jazz, not wanting to have to rush through their conversation at the café, instead wanting to rush there and talk. “May I carry you?”

“No.”

Nodding his assent, he continued the conversation anyway. “Jazz, you’re _you_ ,” he repeated. “You’re a snarly, snarky glitch-head that I happen to have a connection with, and only Primus knows why.” Looking down at his friend, he added, “But it’s connecting with you that makes me feel _alive_. You’re still a Youngling in frame, but that’s only because you haven’t decided on what frame style and systems you want to possess yet. But I will not treat you any differently than when I was still in my Youngling frame.”

“Everyone who upgrades starts treating their still-Youngling friends like kids while they try to act more mature.”

“Am I acting any differently than I used to?”

“Yes.”

That caught him off-guard. The black-and-white blinked down at his companion. “How?”

“You’re . . . _more_.”

“More what?”

“I dunno. Just _more_. Ya fill the frame, you’re more _you_. I dunno how ta explain it.”

“But do I _treat_ you differently than how I used to?”

“. . . no. Not really. You just open doors for me, now.”

“And I’ll be the one glaring at the other Younglings, who may tease you because you and I will continue to be friends through our schooling.”

Groaning, Prowl rubbed at his face. “I forgot about that.”

“Jazz, you’re going to be my _Spark_ -bonded one day. Treating you like anything other than my equal will only make our friendship and our relationship strained.” Pausing to crouch beside Jazz, he asked, “Would you be treating me any different if _you_ were upgraded first?”

“I wanted to upgrade _with_ you,” Jazz murmured, looking away. “I don’t like not sparring with you. I don’t like seein’ _you_ as someone so _huge_.”

Prowl’s face fell, and even though he couldn’t really experience that much sadness without crashing before the upgrade . . . he could _feel_ this time. He had the ability to _feel_! “Jazz, I wanted that, too. I _really_ did.”

Looking up at the sheer emotion in the mech’s voice, the mechling replied, “But _I_ was th’ indecisive one.”

“You were, because you want the best you can get. I . . . I just wanted _out_ of being in that frame, crashing so many times a week because I couldn’t handle emotions. I was left enough in a trust account that I can upgrade individual systems if I need to. Primus, Jazz, I wanted to _feel_ without having to worry about if I was going to topple over.” He hesitantly reached out and rested his fingertips upon Jazz’s shoulder. “I don’t want to burden _anyone_ with all those problems.”

“You . . . you sayin’ that you were more worried about _me_ , so _that’s_ why you upgraded so fast?”

Prowl nodded. That knowledge seemed to truly reassure Jazz, who nodded in return. Prowl spoke first, smiling just a touch. “I don’t know about you, but I want to have some sweets and some energon.”

“Fine. But you’re paying.”

“What?” Prowl laughed, and the sound lifted Jazz’s spirits. “ _You_ have the bigger allowance!”

“How the slag is _that_ fair?!”

.o.

Wheeljack came to, blinking up at a face that stared down at him sternly from under a familiar Praxian chevron. His memory was glitching . . . why was Prowl in his apartment?

That was when one side of the expressive-but-not-used-expressively mouth quirked up in vague amusement. That in itself was enough to worry the inventor and engineer, since Prowl _never_ smiled unless there was good enough reason.

Someone shifted behind him, and the weight around his frame shifted with the movement.

Ratchet cursed.

Oh.

“Enjoy yourselves? I’m never sitting on that couch ever _again_.” Prowl moved off to prepare energon for the groaning and drained duo that were slowly and carefully disentangling themselves from where they had recharged.

_:You were supposed to have left!:_ Ratchet hissed over short-range communication to ’Jack, staring at the mech with a confused glare.

Quirking an optic ridge in return, Wheeljack replied, _:You didn’t exactly go easy enough on me that I could get up and leave you sleeping peacefully.:_

_:Tempter.:_

_:Who was doing the seducing last night, hmm?:_

“Wheeljack, you know my systems as well as I do. Will you _please_ leave the flirting off until I’m out of range to overhear it?” Prowl asked from the kitchen area, looking over his shoulder at the pair, sensory-wings in a clear embarrassed pose. “I don’t want to know what you and my Caretaker were getting up to last night.”

“Well, I _could_ educate you,” came the tease from the smaller mech.

Ratchet covered his optics with a hand and groaned as Prowl twitched and shook his head, bringing energon over on his way to the door. “I’m out to the Academy.” Pausing before opening the door, he added softly, “Ratchet, Wheeljack, I’m glad that you’re finding comfort and peace with each other.”

The nigh-silent frame slipped through the door, greeting Jazz on the other side, leaving the older mechs watching after him. Wheeljack chuckled, sipping at his energon. “He was right; he would have been wasted as a femme. He doesn’t have the mind for it.”

“Jazz could well upgrade to femme. He has the compassion and emotional tenancies to fit the role.” Ratchet stretched lazily, glad that there wasn’t reason for a Senate session to be called this early in the morning.

“He could, but . . . femmes frames don’t have as much power in them.”

“True. Techni, as tough as she is, would still agree with you on this.”

“He could go with being a minibot.”

Studying the mech whose Spark called to his, Ratchet replied warily, “You got a parts list from the boy.”

“I did.”

“You little fragger! Tell me!” Excited, Ratchet sat up to face Wheeljack.

Laughing, seeing how relaxed the usually-tense once-medic was behaving, he outlined the list that he had been given, as well as noting, “He chose the _exact_ processor that can handle Prowl’s once they’re mature enough and settled enough in their identities that they wish to interface and-or Bond.”

“So the little bratling did,” Ratchet murmured. Frowning, activating long-dormant holographic systems, he brought up the parts, playing with them in midair and fitting it together like a puzzle. When he had reached the end, he pulled up a hologram of Prowl’s current frame as compared to the one that Jazz indicated that he wanted made. “Well, now.”

“Distinctly different in style, almost . . . Polyhexi in style, truly the best of both worlds of femme and mech design.”

“The Arts City.”

“His father’s city.”

“That shares a border with Praxus.”

The two shared a grin and they called up Jazz’s Caretakers to see if they were free for a shopping spree to surprise the mechling. They needed to get this frame ready for his inhabitance within it as soon as possible.

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** This is the chapter that did NOT want to be written. Pain in the neck child just didn’t want anything to do with me when I wanted to wrap it up. I guess it’s proof that to write a book is just like giving birth to a child: you labor over it, and then once the kid pops out, all of a sudden you’re staring down and going, “That’s it?!”_

_I’m kidding, really. I love babies. I love writing. Both can be headaches that are worth all the effort._

_And no, no hungover Prowl . . . THIS time. Mwahahahaha!_

_Song is: “One and Only” by Adele, and used because of Ratchet and Wheeljack._

_Thank you all for your reviews, your story/author watches, and for your questions fielded to me! I may touch a bit more on the differences between the mech and femme functions in coming chapters, but nothing like what will be explained once we return to the humans._


	18. Mnemonic Arc 5: Sentinel

The vorns passed, Cybertron turned, mechs graduated classes and matured. Some took oaths of office, some spoke oaths towards art pieces that didn’t wish to develop as quickly as the artist wished.

Prowl looked in at his roommate from around a doorway, seeing how the mech glared between the synth-harp in lap, which had been caressed by his hands just clicks prior, and the datapad that held the composition notes. As always, his systems that were silent to anyone else were noticed by the currently black-silver-optic-blue mech sitting on the berth. “In or out.”

Walking in, Prowl crouched and took the harp from careful hands. “You’re frustrated.”

Rattling of a plethora of musical terms, Jazz ended it with, “—and I’m getting’ tired of that damn femme out-performin’ me!”

“She’s your _sister_ , and she has two thousand vorns of experience on you. Jazz, you’re already looked upon as one of our generations greatest aspiring vocal artists.”

“Thad may be true, but _you_ wouldn’t know what it’s like to have a sibling to compete with.”

“That was low, Jazz.”

Wincing, the mech looked away, his volatile emotions always riding so close to the surface. “Sorry.”

Resting his hand along one sculpted cheek with affection, Prowl replied, “I don’t have to do any shifts for the Enforcers tonight or tomorrow; care to join me for a drive?”

“Ya just want to watch my taillights.”

“Primus, Jazz, is it _always_ about interfacing with you?” Prowl straightened, the mask over his emotions sliding into place as he stalked out of the room irritably, his mood set off by the continuously-antagonistic mech that was struggling to make his place in the world of entertainers.

Looking upwards for patience, the little mech followed his friend. “No, Prowl, it ain’t.”

“You’ve been pestering me about trying an interface with you for vorns, and you _haven’t_ backed off in the recent deca-orns.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I said that I would. I’m just . . . can ya blame me for bein’ curious?”

Pausing and turning, his now-signature doorwings drooping lightly, Prowl replied, “No. Call me old-fashioned, though, but I want to have the first time be . . . special. Not just out of boredom, or to distract ourselves.”

“Everyone figures that we frag each other senseless already.”

“That’s everyone. Not me.”

They stared each other down, seeing how neither was willing to budge on this. Both were stubborn and unyielding mechs, and they always had been. And both were extremely intuitive when it came to each other. Which lead Jazz to sighing and asking, “What’s wrong, Prowler?”

Not protesting the nickname in private, the black-and-white looked to one side before shaking his head. “Not now.”

“Prowl.”

“Please, Jazz, not now.”

“C’mon, when ya don’ tell me anythin’, ya _really_ get me worried.”

Wincing, knowing that his silence had caused problems before, Prowl moved to sit down, leaning against the old couch and watching how Jazz took up the couch facing him. Finally, he spoke. “I’d like to raise a Sparkling.”

That shocked Jazz. “Wait. What? Where’d this come from?”

“Think about it. We have the resources. At least . . . _I_ do . . .”

“Naw, don’ ya even start on that. Whatever _you_ go for, _I_ support. You supported _me_ when I was first startin’ ta get into the entertainment business an’ ya had your Enforcer job for two vorns. Th’ least I can do is continue to support _your_ desires.”

“But my worry is that I’m not suited for raising a Sparkling.”

They fell into silence for a long moment before Jazz finally replied, “Ya still are afraid of Bondin’.”

“I . . . I may always be afraid, Jazz.”

The lights began to lower outside their windows, indicating the close of another orn and imitating the light of a setting sun. The lowered light bathed the duo in golds and reds. Standing up and walking to his partner, his best friend, and the one whose Spark he adored, Jazz settled himself upon the low table before the larger mech. “I know. An’ I’m . . . I’m still afraid of Bondin’, too. But . . . we don’ have to be Bonded ta raise a Sparklin’ together. I’m _dedicated_ to ya, Prowl. I’m committed t’ ya.” Reaching over, he took one of Prowl’s hands in his, resting it over his Spark and smiling. “I know that I haven’t ever said it out loud . . . but my Spark is yours, and that makes me feel like the luckiest mech alive, knowin’ that it’s safe with you. I _love_ you.”

Prowl’s mouth moved to open, and with the click of processors grinding to a halt, he crumpled in a crash.

Blinking, Jazz stared down at the mech that had quite literally keeled into his arms, then began to laugh at the fact that he had finally caused Prowl to crash in happiness, throwing his head back with the motion before moving to rest his friend out on his stomach, not wanting precious wings to become squished. He paused, then began to trace the lines of the doorwings, knowing just where it was sensors, and where it was cosmetic armor. He began humming the tune that had been plaguing him.

He knew what to do when Prowl crashed. It was nothing new to him. With his upgrade, Prowl could work his way out of a crash after a short while. If he was out for longer than two joors, he called Ratchet, who was a half-joor away. Prowl crashing because of _happiness_ , however, was different. So Jazz leaned in and began to hum closer to the sensor wings, leaning over the someday-Bondmate that was currently trying to get through a crash to rest his hands on warm living metal, making sure that there had been no physical or sensory damage because of the hard crash. Doorwings twitched.

That was new.

Settling his vocalizor evenly between the wings, he grinned brightly and began to hum again, watching as the doorwings continued to twitch and move. Stroking along one long, graceful line of the sensory-net, gaining him a flicked wing and a groan as Prowl came to. Continuing the music, he felt one white hand grip at his arm, hold onto him before optics onlined and _stared_ hard at the mech who had brought him out of the crash.

_:How did you do that?:_

_:Do what?:_

_:Your voice . . . I **felt** it. It stilled the cycle trapping me in the crash.:_

_:Sensory wings?:_ Jazz replied, shrugging before pressing his forehead between the appendages, with a sigh. “I didn’t mean for you ta crash, Prowler.”

“Jazz . . . why do you press the interfacing so much?”

Knowing that Prowl would bring the subject of love back up at a later time, once he had processed it to the best of his ability, Jazz sat up and replied, “Well, it’s ’cause I don’ wanna know anyone else’s mind but _yours_. I don’ wanna feel anyone else’s mind against mine but yours. An’ I’m _curious_ ’bout how ya think.”

Prowl nodded, still laying down. Burying his head in his arms, he sighed and felt the musician’s talented hands making sure that everything was still in working order after the crash. Gradually, the touches went from professional and cool to timid and curious. Turning, he looked up at mech, and he whispered, “I love you too. I just don’t know how to express it.”

“Ya jus’ did,” Jazz laughed, leaning in to rest his forehead to his . . . his mate’s. “C’mon, ya need energon after a hard reboot.”

“I hate that you have to still deal with _my_ inadequacies.”

“Prowl, I would _always_ help you, no matter what th’ handicap. It means nuthin’ ta someone who loves ya.”

Sitting up and getting his equilibrium back, Prowl muttered, “It’s humiliating that I still crash.”

“Ya could’ve gone without the advanced battle and strategy/tactics computer, but then ya wouldn’t feel _you_ when ya thought about it.”

“Would you have preferred me to not have it?” Prowl asked as he got to his feet and followed Jazz to their kitchen, settling down on the tall, Praxian stool that let his doorwings rest upon a padded bar.

“It’s part of _you_. And I accept you for who ya are, always, without question.” Jazz handed the first cube to Prowl while he waited for his own to finish. Downing half of the energon without hesitation, Prowl swirled the remainder thoughtfully, watching the way that it sparkled in the lowered light. Jazz continued. “But why for a Sparklin’ right now?”

“Maybe not immediately,” Prowl replied after a moment of thought, “but in the near future would be nice.”

The door opened with a slam and a silver mech stalked in irritably, closing the door behind him with a growl as he retreated to his room. Jazz grinned broadly. _:With **him** here, why do we need a Sparkling of our own?:_

Snorting into the energon and coughing as it got into his air-intakes, Prowl coughed and chewed his mate out over the airwaves as he cleared his intakes, seeing the little mech doubled over in mirth, laughing silently. They rented a large suite of apartments with other working mechs of various backgrounds. One of whom they were covertly watching for Terratron.

Jazz had completed his training in Metallikato before Prowl had finished learning his second style. Thankfully, they lived close enough to Iacon that they were still able to go and practice, so long as they didn’t come on the days that Terratron was training his successor.

Who had _no_ idea that he was living with co-protégés of the Lord Protector. Who was currently contacting Prowl. _:Did the boy make it home without harming himself?:_

_:Evening, Terra. Yes, he’s here. Primus, his temper is frayed. You really found a mech after your own Spark, temper included.:_

_:I’ll let you get away with that only because your stamina is better than mine.:_

The mention of the old mech’s declining health caused Prowl to pull Jazz into the conversation as a silent witness. _:Are you all right, Master?:_

_:Yes, Prowl, I’m still functioning, but my Spark isn’t absorbing as much energon as it used to, and I tire faster. But I’m not calling to talk about my current health. The mech is having trouble adjusting to the new style. He doesn’t have your patience, and he takes to your advice easier than he does with mine.:_

_:Are . . . are you asking me to tutor him?:_

_:Please, Prowl. Your patience and your desire for stillness in your processors has given you a gift that not many possess. He’s currently learning Metallikato but with some hints of Circuit-Su to help him focus. But he doesn’t understand why it’s important to focus.:_

Taking a moment, Prowl murmured over the com, _:That would mean alerting him to the fact that you’ve been keeping an optic on him every waking moment.:_

_:If he realizes that, tell him this: ‘A Spark can be taken from the glatorial ring, but the glatorial ring must be carefully extracted from the Spark.’:_

_:Yes, Master.:_

_:I have to rest. Come see me tomorrow.:_

_:We will.:_

_:Good boy.:_

The line fell dead, and Prowl shuddered. He hated being around those who were comfortable with death looming around a corner. It always brought back memories he tried his best to bury. The sensation of Jazz’s hand brushing over his doorwings sent an almost-uncomfortable heat flushing through his systems, and he let the appendages droop a hint. “Time to tell him, I suppose.”

“You get to do all the talkin’.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

Grinning, Jazz threw back the final bits of energon and followed Prowl to their roommate’s door. Knocking upon it, the taller of the two mechs asked, “You all right?”

“Smelter’s fire, who the _slag_ are you kidding?” the mech roared in return.

Jazz grinned, then straightened his face. “Megs, mech, c’mon, open up.”

There was the sound of a mech shifting, then reluctantly opening the door to look down at them both. He wasn’t much taller than they were, but he was quite a bit broader. His startling crimson Kaon optics ran over their frames almost dismissively, but Prowl crossed his arms over his chest. “Megivor, you have a _lot_ to learn from Terra if you think _that_ is going to scare us.”

“You . . . what?” Startled and thrown off, the mech blinked down at his roommates. He knew of and had met only two mechs who called Terratron by any sort of nickname. Sentinel Prime and Senator Ratchet. 

“Terratron, your Master . . . once ours,” Prowl replied seriously. “He’s been scaring us since we were Younglings. Your glare has _nothing_ on his.”

Several things clicked into place and the silver mech’s shoulders fell incrementally. “Of course he would settle me with former students. He doesn’t _trust_ me because I’m a Kaon brat.”

Laughing, Jazz shook his head, causing Prowl to ping him hard enough that it caused him to wince. “No, it’s for just the reason why he contacted me. I offer you my services as a tutor.”

Megivor, a pit fighter, a gladiator, a hardened warrior in his own right, blinked and began to size Prowl up all over again. He blinked, then asked warily, “You say that you can tutor me.”

“What style are you learning?”

“Metallikato.”

“Oh, good. Then Jazz and I can take turns tutoring you until you move past it.”

“You . . . both . . . I need high grade. _How_?”

“Providence, some would say.” Prowl shook his head. “Come out and talk with us, and we’ll help you understand what Terra has trouble explaining.”

“I don’t want to intrude . . . you both look like you were discussing something of importance.” Looking distinctly uncomfortable with butting in on a talk between mates, he shuffled one foot in a rare show of his true personality.

“We have time to discuss things. For now, however, helping you comes first. And no, no high grade until we’re done talking. Primus, you ingest enough of that to fuel a small aircraft. It’s not even _quality_ high-grade, which makes it all the more disturbing.”

“Old habits,” Megivor muttered as he followed them, his frame showing some grace. “One question, before you start. Do you know anything about the Protectorate’s Bondmate and what she has to be like?”

Glancing to each other, the pair shook their heads. Prowl murmured, “I only know history files. You’ll get to know more than we will, knowing Terratron. I trust that you have someone in mind?”

“No,” the mech grumbled, head ducking down between his shoulders slightly. “Can you see a femme or a mech wanting a scarred mech who looms?”

The pair grinned at each other then chorused, “Starscream.”

Coughing in indignation at the mention of the famous-but-narcissistic scientist, Megivor groaned and sank into the larger couch, head in his hands. “Primus, you two. I didn’t need that mental image.”

“Fine, what about his brother, Thundercracker?”

“Or Skywarp?”

“I’m going to—”

“Well according to the rumors, Prowl, ya know that if you snare _one_ of a trine, the other two are sure to follow? Three berthmates for the price of one!”

Megivor barked, “Enough! Primus above, you don’t _stop_ , do you?!” He rubbed at his helm, smiling despite himself. Jazz _was_ good at getting people to smile when they least wanted to.

Laughing, Jazz tossed a cube to the third of five total mechs that shared this space. “Right. Let’s get down to business. Terra told us that ya have trouble with quieting mind an’ Spark.”

Prowl nodded when the crimson optics slid onto his face with a questioning look. “We can help you, and can help explain how to start the process. The rest of it will be on you, but once you learn how to still yourself, to be in the moment, to _be_ , then a lot more of the training that Terratron will be giving to you will make more sense.”

Megivor blinked and then leaned forward, elbows propped on knees to learn from this unexpected quarter.

.o.

Prowl awoke the next morning with Jazz curled up against his frame, his smaller one fitting perfectly against him. Smiling, carefully feeling the whisper of emotions that arose in his Spark towards the little musician, he rested his fingers against smooth armor, hearing the smaller systems cycle into wakefulness. “I love you, Jazz.”

Even not fully online, the phrase brought a smile to the smaller face, and caused the mech to curl closer. With a sigh, they rested in the comfort of the harmony of their Sparks, unBonded though they were.

_:Enforcer Prowl.:_

Growling in irritation, but bringing up his professional side, Prowl replied, _:Prowl here. What do you need, Chief?:_

_:You’re requested as part of a Guard by Terratron and Sentinel Prime.:_

_:A . . . Guard, sir?:_

_:Senator Ratchet is your Caretaker, with your Sparked Caretaker being Detrious. You are to report to Terratron for further instruction in one joor.:_

_:Yes, sir.:_

The line went dead, and he frowned, running his mind through what could _possibly_ warrant a special Guard right now. He felt the dormant battle computer hum to life, pushing his emotions back while it took control and settled the facts in order with statistics.

“Holy Primus!” Jumping out of bed and startling Jazz, Prowl moved to grab what he would need.

Falling off of the berth with the movements, Jazz yelped, “Woah! Pit, Prowl, what’s going on?”

“Falimus’ Matrix! It chose its bearer!”

“What?!”

Outlining what he knew as he rubbed a cleaning cloth briefly over his frame, he felt Jazz drag a stool over and help him with his back and wings, tapping them twice each to indicate that Prowl should dampen the sensors while he scrubbed at them carefully, his hands moving in tandem with his mate’s with careful precision. “What slag timin’, mech.”

“How do you mean?”

“The dock tragedy? An’ the Sparkmates that were caught in it?”

Wincing, Prowl nodded. “But perhaps this is also the _right_ timing. We lost a lot of lives there . . . maybe the Matrix wants to give people hope again?”

“Iunno, mech.”

“Who are we to even _try_ to see how the ancient Primes see? I have to go.”

“Prowl . . .”

Pausing at the door, the Enforcer looked to his mate levelly.

“I know it’s a bad time to mention this, but I’m signing on with the Enforcers today.”

Frowning, Prowl walked back into the room, pressing his forehead to Jazz’s. “I can’t waste a moment, Sparklove. Talk with me while I drive.”

Jazz was shocked into silence at the endearment, but as Prowl moved to leave the apartment, he reached under the berth for a cube of medical-grade energon, standing and pushing it into Prowl’s hands. Ratchet made sure that they had a stock of it just in case Prowl had a longer-than-normal crash. “You’ll need this when you get there. _Don’t_ forget to fuel up. You crash faster if you don’t have any fresh energon in your system.”

Nodding, accepting the cube with a gentle smile, Prowl felt the gentle hands of his mate caress his own once before pulling away. One final meeting of optics, and then he was out the door, subspacing the cube and running out the door and down the stairs to the street. _:Why are you signing on with the Enforcers?:_

Jazz walked to the kitchen to prepare a normal cube of energon, nodding to the two other occupants of their rooms. “How’s it goin’, mechs.”

“I’m a _femme_ , slag-head,” the femme replied, but in play and fun. Nobody could hate Jazz. He grinned and chuckled at the couple.

_:Because you’re making more of a difference than I am right now. I want to be able to make a difference.:_

_:Jazz, your songs are hummed by anyone who has been to a performance. You make a difference.:_

_:But I’m not usin’ all my talents to make big personal differences in lives like you are. I want ta help ya.:_

He could almost feel Prowl’s mind working, putting situations and circumstances through his advanced processors. Now, Jazz was no sluggard when it came to using his mind, but even he knew that to use Prowl’s for a day would send him through the roof. Finally, Prowl answered. _:You have all the skills for the advanced teams, even more than most, because you know how to blend in with people. You’re a performer at Spark, and you can do many things with that talent. Jazz, do what makes you happy.:_

_:You . . . you don’t mind me abandoning what I’ve been schooling myself for all these vorns?:_

_:I’m not your Caretaker, Jazz, I’m your mate. Techni and Blues may probably give you a new exhaust port for it all, but that’s what Caretakers do. They’ll get over it, but they’ll always love you. But it’s important that you fulfill what function you find gives you the most satisfaction.:_

They fell silent for a few moments, and Jazz turned the news station on as if on a whim. Prowl had been called in many times before on a day off, and that didn’t cause their roommates any alarm. It was habit for the news coverage to be turned on to see if Prowl was going into any danger.

That was when Megivor barked in shock and stumbled out of the room. “He’s _here_!”

“What?” Jazz asked, but blinked in shock as Terratron opened the door.

“Megs. Jazz. Good. You’re here. Where’s Prowl?” He looked to Jazz expectantly, ignoring the silent and shocked roommates still on the couch.

“He was called in by his Chief to report to you in Iacon, Lord Protector.”

“Fragged idiot. The Chief, not Prowl.” Sighing, he looked to his current and final protégé. “Well, come on then. You and I are going to the capitol.” He paused, then looked to Jazz. “You are neither Enforcer nor Senator nor are you of any seeming importance.”

“Thanks, boss,” Jazz replied dryly, sipping at his low-grade, making sure to keep himself posed causally.

“But you are my student, nevertheless,” he chuckled, recognizing that Jazz was playing up a role as somewhat disinterested third party. “We’ll beat Prowl to the capitol. Get your cleaning cloths. You _must_ look presentable, else you’ll shame me.”

“Primus bless, Terra.”

“Get a move on, bratling. You have a breem. Less.”

Having ignored the ping of Prowl’s words during that time, he returned to the conversation as he gathered his things, hearing the shuffling of his Master, of Megivor, and of the two common, everyday Cybertronians trying not to flinch under the intimidating presence of the Lord Protector. _:Prowl, Terra just showed up at the door to collect Megs. He saw me, and looks like he’s going to be ignoring custom to have more than one student around him.:_

_:Son of the Smelter on a skewer, are you slagging kidding me?!:_

_:Mm. You cussed. That’s hot.:_

_:Jazz.:_

_:Yes, Sweetspark?:_

_:Really?:_

_:Yes.:_

_:Primus. Fine. I’ll see you when you get here. I wonder why he’s going to have you come.:_

_:Like I said, I don’t know.:_ He grabbed his best cloths, then grabbed two more medical-grade energon cubes. His smaller frame could go for orns without energon if he absolutely needed to, but the low-grade he ingested with Prowl in the mornings were a pleasant ritual that they enjoyed. It kept his systems fresh and functioning to their highest capability.

_:I have your best cloths and some energon as emergency rations if we don’t get any for the rest of today. Anything you forgot that you want me to bring?:_

The reply he got caused his Spark to shudder, pulsing erratically in response.

_:My better half.:_

.o.

When they arrived, Prowl pulled up not too long after, meeting with Terratron and a half-dozen other mechs, not including Megivor. The moment Prowl transformed, he downed the cube in four gulps, shuddering at how it hit his tanks, but sealed and subspaced the cube to return to his Caretaker at some point.

The eight Cybertronians fell into a double line behind the next Protectorate, and Prowl and Jazz were shocked when the clearly-older mechs and three femmes indicated that they begin the double lines. Without any argument, as if they had practiced this many times, they moved smoothly through the Prime Complex, but didn’t go through the main atriums. Instead, they detoured into the upper barracks, and into the washracks.

A black and red mech and a blue and silver femme stared at the newcomers, watching them and sizing them all up carefully before returning to helping each other wash down. Once he was sure that they were satisfied, Terratron turned to those whom he had gathered. “You are my last students, and each of you, I have taught to the best of my ability, and to the best of yours to learn. Wash down, polish up with what we have here, even if you brought your own, and make sure that you help each other. Jazz, Prowl, you two have to be spotless for your professions, and I expect you each to take less time. So once you’re done, help Megivor.”

Prowl began to sum up what he was seeing. Ten Guards. One Lord Protectorate. One Lord-Presumptive. “Lord Protector—”

“You are among those whom I call friends, Prowl.”

“Terra, then. Why are we here?” He ducked under the spray of solvents, feeling the metal dust and who-knew what else from his drive here to fall away under the powerful jets.

“I called you all here because you are my best students. Many of you know more than one style. Only three of you are experts in one style of martial arts. One of you has only begun his training. You are the best Guards that any mech or femme could ask for. You are not just an Honor Guard for what is approaching, but you are also intermediaries, and will be spokespersons for your professions and areas of interest. You are here because Falimus’ Matrix has reawakened.”

“Are you saying that we’re going to be the next _Senate_?” a silvery-pink femme asked, poking her head out from under the spray.

Prowl turned Jazz around and grabbed a brush to get between armor plates, which were lifted carefully so that the slim white hands could get in there and do a quick but thorough cleaning.

“If that is to be your function, yes. However. At this point, you are the contacts that the new Prime and Protectorate will need with the primary professions. Sound off, starting with the Guards.”

“Ironhide, Captain of the Guard, Bondmate of Chromia. Pit-fighting, Crystalocution.”

“Chromia, Captain’s Second, Bondmate of Ironhide. Diffusion, Metallikato.”

“Arcee, Guard, Caretaker, Teacher. UnBonded mate of Springer. Diffusion and Circuit-Su.”

“Firestar, Medic, Caretaker. No mate. Metallikato and Circuit-Su.”

“Springer. Guard. UnBonded mate of Arcee. Metallikato.”

“Juryrig, Construction, Caretaker. Crystalocution.”

“Spinox, Science Quarter, specialty in zenobotany. No mate. Circuit-Su and Metallikato.”

“Nova, Transportation and Trans-scanning Education. No mate. Metallikato.”

“Jazz, Entertainer, specialty in vocal performance. UnBonded mate of Prowl. Metallikato, some Circuit-Su.”

Prowl drew damp air in through his vents. “Prowl, Enforcer, Special Operations. UnBonded mate of Jazz. Diffusion, Metallikato, Circuit-Su, Crystalocution, and Pit Fighting.”

Cries of protest and disbelief met his audios from all but five individuals: his mate, teacher, roommate, and the Bonded Guards. When the furor died down, Ironhide stated, “I’ll believe you when I get to shove your face into the mats.”

Terratron snickered, “ _If_ you can keep your hands on him. Prowl is a natural; but he is not my true protégé. Megivor.”

The mech looked up, and was quickly assaulted by two rather rambunctious scrubbing brushes that got under his armor, around spined edges, and truly got him clean while the old Lord continued. “Megivor,” he repeated, “is my choice for the next Lord Protectorate. He knows Pit Fighting, and has mastered Crystaloction without much problem. Currently, he is under my and Prowl’s tutelage for Metallikato. Before the day is out, I will merely be Terra once again, and he will be called by a different name, to signify his rank and his stature. As of this moment, as he washes himself for presentation, he also washes his name away. Until his designation is handed to him, he will remain nameless.”

When he paused, every mech and femme looked at the old teacher who stood almost-invisible in the mists that swirled around his silver frame. The only sign that gave him away were his violet optics lighting the water particles drifting lazily through the air currents.

“And it is your responsibility to protect the Prime and Protectorate in these first few, unstable vorns. Protect them as you know how to. They will be lifelong connections to you. Do not spurn this opportunity to serve Cybertron as few others have.”

Prowl and Jazz shared an incredulous look behind the formerly-named Megivor’s back. This was what they had been wanting all along. They had wanted to be able to help Cybertron, to help shape a better future for their planet, their home.

But why did it feel like it was too soon for them to be responsible for such a massive task? Why did this feel so _rushed_?

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Last update before Botcon, friends! Thank you for your reviews, for your watches, and for all your attention! Please be patient with me as I’m not sure when I’ll be able to update next. That’s why I finished two chapters out for your reading pleasure. I will try to answer reviews and PMs as they come in, and I thank you for all your kind words so far, from the very first update of this story to the current installment. It does not go unappreciated!_

_Song is “Sentinel” by Mike Oldfield off of his album “Tubular Bells.” He’s what got me interested in a fusion of classical instruments and electronic synths back when I was 9 years old._


	19. Mnemonic Arc 6: Never Be The Same

What was the purpose of a Bond?

Prowl considered this as he and Jazz sat the shell-shocked Nameless Lord-Presumptive upon a stool. Jazz stared up at the severe, distant face, then walked around the frame. “I’m no artist, Terra.”

“Prowl is less of an artist, but he shows better talent than the rest of these uncultured louts.” The old mech knew how to get a room to react to him, and it was clear by their self-deprecating chuckles that they agreed with him. “I am _not_ allowing anyone that I do not personally know and trust into this room. As you can see, I do not know any frame artists.”

“You want glyphs on him? Unless etched, they ain’ gonna stay past a deca-orn with the way that he scrubs himself.”

“They’ll be etched later. It’s not like he doesn’t already have experience with an etched marking.”

Bond, as a common noun, meant something that binds, that ties, that binds of fastens together. It is a uniting force, or a binding agreement, a covenant. A duty, a promise, or an obligation to honor that to which one has bound themselves to. It could be a chemical bond, an adhesive.

The legal definition of a bond was a written and sealed obligation, or it could mean money posted to release one from a holding cell.

He almost snorted at that thought, and decided to not mention it to Jazz. That mech was devious enough without encouragement. Prowl shifted with Jazz, following him with the painting tools and the black gloss paint, his mind still elsewhere. A bond meant to join securely, or to secure and hold together. Additionally, bonding in the common sense meant the formation of close, specialized relationships, such as between parent and child or between lovers. To bind meant a variety of things, but the definitions that pertained to relations between two individuals, it meant to compel, obligate or unite, as with a sense of moral duty.

And that wasn’t even the proper noun of Bond or the act of Binding.

He stepped into Jazz’s personal space without thinking, and the smaller mech moved with him, using his frame carefully as a stepping frame to begin painting from the top down. While they didn’t move as one mech, and probably never would or could as that territory was for Spark-twins alone, they moved with harmony. His sensors picked up on Chromia moving closer at seeing their movements. He had his hand supporting Jazz’s side, and he tapped his finger twice, their signal for “friendly approaching,” so that the mech wouldn’t jump or twitch when Chomia inevitably spoke.

But she didn’t speak. Not yet. She just moved closer.

Prowl returned his mind to thinking about Bonds.

To Bond with one meant that you were making a commitment unto death to another individual. Sparks merged, and only death would separate them. The death of a Sparkmate meant one of three things: depression until the remaining Sparkmate joined their mate at Primus’ side on the other side of the AllSpark, insanity at literally being without their other half, or if their willpower and their emotional stability was strong enough, they would survive and continue on with their lives, if they had sibling-Bonds.

Bonding was claimed by all those who have experienced it as being what Sparks were designed for. Of course, communication was the basis of their entire civilization and culture. Without communication, mechs went mad. Bonding was a state of constant communication between Sparks, their very souls, whether it was through emotions or words. He had heard whispered through the Academy halls that when interfacing, what one felt, the other could feel as well. It was what many aspired to have in their lives, this esoteric level of communication.

Jazz shifted his weight, and Prowl moved to compensate, doorwing flinging out to counter his lean, hand holding a bit more firmly onto his side.

Bonding was the most intimate and private moment that a couple would experience. Interfacing was nothing in comparison to the level of trust that one showed by baring their Spark. Traditionally, there was a public Commitment ceremony on the dawn of a new day, held by a priest of Primus, followed by three days of celebration in the couple’s honor. The first day, the promised couple spent around their families and friends, enjoying the celebration, only to be sent off at sundown, where they would retire to their apartments and Bond. The second day was spent with the couple cementing their Bond, which was _not_ an unpleasant task in the _least_ , while the celebration continued on without them. The third day, the couple joined the party again, and at sundown, everyone went home for a well-earned recharge. Depending upon the city-state of origin, the details of the ceremonies would differ.

Balance shifting. He moved so that Jazz could jump down, moving around him without a second thought to come to the best possible position where Jazz wouldn’t have to stretch in order to reach paint or tools. That was when Chromia spoke.

“And you two claim that you _aren’t_ Bonded?”

Gruff femme, a perfect match for her gruff mech. Jazz grinned and looked up to his solemn mate. “We ain’t ready. But we’ve known each other since we were Younglings.”

“And have known what we would be to one another since the moment of our meeting,” Prowl added, looking up at the Guard. She chewed on that piece of information for a moment as Jazz continued fine-tuning the lower end of the glyph on the Lord-Presumptive’s shoulder, which read as “fidelity.”

She seemed to be content with merely watching them work with each other in perfect sync. The Enforcer returned his mind to his thoughts. Bonding.

There were many Bonds that one could forge between individuals. There was the most-common one that laid between Sparkmates. But there were minor Bonds that were complementary to this, ones that created a spiderweb of connections and communication between what could be considered open, overlapping tribes of mechs and femmes.

The easiest Bond to forge was that between a Caretaker and their Youngling, which was the earliest that a Spark was mature enough to handle this Bond. It was woven together on an emotional level, a way that a Caretaker could help their Youngling and young Adult through the roughest frame transition and social shifts in their lives. This was the Bond that made a Caretaker into a Creator.

Adversely, the hardest Bond to forge was one between siblings. The Brother-Bond could only exist where two could see each other with equality, and with the clear desire to hold each other up and succeed. Once forged, this bond could be broken, but it took hatred to dissolve the empathy and understanding between the individuals in question. If a Brother-Bond existed between two individuals who wanted a closer platonic friendship, they could deepen it into a Twin Bond. However, they would never be as close as Spark-Twins.

“Will either of you reformat as a femme?”

“I see no need why we should,” Prowl replied before Jazz could.

The smaller mech chuckled. “We don’ have the personalities to reformat our functions. I mean no disrespect, Chromia, but we just ain’ cut ta be femmes.”

“I fear that we’re a bit too ruthless, not enough compassion to warrant a reformat,” Prowl added, spinning the paint in the small pot it sat in, keeping it from sticking to the sides. “Femmes have more compassion, more tenderness in their personalities than either of us possess. Neither of us are good at soothing another Spark other than each other’s.”

“Are you insinuating that femmes are not good fighters?”

Both paused to stare at Chromia. Even the nameless one turned to stare at her over his shoulder before the trio let grins break over their faces and they went back to what they all had been doing. Jazz answered for all of them. “Femme, we ain’ stupid. Femmes are faster, smaller, swifter, and able ta get into places that mechs can’t. Ya have a different way o’ thinkin’, an’ can _organize_ people, not just _leadin’_ them as mechs are wont ta do.”

The Lord-Presumptive was preparing his Spark to create a Brother-Bond with a mech he didn’t even know. Prowl could see the tension building across broad shoulders. He could see the way that the Kaon optics were darting over every imperfection in the ceramic floor.

Glancing at Terra, who was standing back and preparing himself for handing his office over to a young and _untried_ mech, Prowl saw that the old mech was not going to be much help here. But it was to help them all build relationships that they could all count upon. Primus, Prowl felt far too young and far too inexperienced for this sort of thing, but he _had_ to step up. He tapped the paint-pot against Jazz’s free hand, which turned upwards instantly to hold it, walking around to stand before Meg—the nameless one. Tapping his foot twice, gaining the attention of the slightly-older mech, he said, “You’re panicking. Stop it.”

He opened his mouth to retort angrily, but Prowl cut him off. “Focus!” he barked, doorwings held high and proud. “ _Focus_ ,” he hissed in a lower voice. “Vent in and out. Find your Spark-pulse, focus on synchronizing your functions around it. _Calm yourself_. Your tension is spreading through the room.”

Looking to their Master, seeing that the mech was watching the interaction curiously, the nameless mech looked up at Prowl’s cold blue optics under the Praxian chevron. “You correct me in front of the Guard?”

“I’m your senior and I’m your tutor; I’m guiding you. I also speak as a friend. You won’t get anything done with a frenzied processor while waiting, and you sure as the Pit won’t get anything done if you’re like this while you’re fulfilling duties as Lord High Protector.”

Drawing in a shuddering breath though vents, the nameless mech let his head hang between his shoulders, looking at his hands dangling in his lap. Optics dimmed to black as he focused inward and down, towards his Spark and the simple function of venting cool air through his system, followed by synching and evening out the paces of his fuel, lubricant, and coolant pumps, some of which he had pulsing on the off-beat to keep himself balanced correctly.

When Prowl was satisfied with the results, he returned to helping Jazz with the final bits of painting, spraying a sealing coat of clear varnish over the fresh paint, shielding the red optics carefully and making sure that particles didn’t get into vents. With a nod at the finished product, He pulled out the polishing wax and cloth while Jazz went to wash off any stray pieces of paint that he had let spatter upon himself rather than upon the Lord-Presumptive.

He felt the optics of many upon him as he felt the cloth snatched from his hand with an embarrassed growl of: “I can polish myself, slaggit. I’m not a Sparkling.”

“No, but you can’t reach everywhere,” Jazz replied from across the room. “ _And_ your frame’s massive. Needs more luvin’,” he teased with a chuckle.

“Find me a mech or femme willing to deal with him, and we may have a somewhat-presentable mech,” Terratron said with a laugh. He smiled at the mock-affronted look that his final pupil shot him. “Has anyone suggested Starscream as a mate?”

“What the _Pit_ is with _everyone_ and suggesting _that aft-head_ as _my mate ___?!” the mech roared over the laughter that surrounded the ranks of his Honor Guard. “Primus! I’m more likely to court _Ratchet_!”

“Leave my Caretaker out of this,” Prowl replied, swatting the Lord-Presumptive’s aft with a swiftly-twisted rag, grinning and feeling a touch light-headed because of the situation they were in and expected to rise to. “Or I’ll tell him what you said!”

“Ooh, and what will he do to me? Speech me to death?”

“Have you _heard_ what comes outta his vocoder when that mech’s pissed?” Ironhide said over the derisive laughter, the awed tone of his voice catching Prowl sideways and shocking him out of anger at the Lord-Presumptive. The laughter died off suddenly, leaving a watchful silence in its wake. “He makes normal cussin’ sound _poetic_. There are worse mechs to be chewed out by, punk,” he growled, stalking closer to the silver mech that had stilled his hands from polishing his armor. “I don’t agree with all the word-wieldin’ folk up on the Spires, but I’ll be slagged if I’m gonna talk bad about Ratchet. Mech has saved more lives with his two hands and scalding words than _any_ of those bastards flattenin’ their afts on those Senate seats have saved with their placating phrases.”

Snorting directly into the younger mech’s face, Ironhide growled, “Learn quick, little Lord, which mechs are worth flaying with your words, and which you should fear because of their quick and fatal retribution. I’ve seen Ratchet on the battlefield, defending himself and his patient without shuttering an optic and giving himself cover in the process. Have you?”

At the silence that greeted his words, realizing that Ratchet had killed aliens larger than two standard-large frames, Ironhide straightened, looking down his olfactory armoring at the Lord-Presumptive, bright optics staring out of a dark face. Settling his shoulders, cannons rotating and whining down, he walked back to his mate, having made his point.

Prowl and Jazz shared a look. From now on, if Ironhide and the Lord Protector took up an argument with each other, they were sticking with Ironhide.

.o.

_~You still live.~_

Groaning, the young mech hadn’t the energy to do anything but lay upon the berth, feeling hands continue to pull his shattered frame together. _~My Sparklove . . .~_

Her sigh echoed in his mind, his very essence, his Spark. His other half, the object of all his affections. _~I was a simple fix. My . . . my old frame didn’t survive. I was given a frame meant for a slagging aristocrat. I mean, it’s beautiful, but . . . it doesn’t feel like “me.”~_

_~I won’t be complaining . . . I can still map your curves . . . new curves . . .~_

_~And I, your angles.~_

_~. . . angles?~_

“Your Sparkmate tells me that you’re alert,” a rasping, old, no, _ancient_ voice whispered gently to the mech upon the table. “Primus smiles upon you, little Spark.”

“Nmph,” he groaned again, his voice unfamiliar. “Where am I?” He activated his optics, then shut them again in the bright lighting of the room.

“Where you were created to be.”

“Who’re you?”

“Alpha Trion.”

“Son of Primus . . .”

“Not exactly,” the old mech chuckled, patting one vast cheek in an endearingly cheeky manner. “But close enough. Here now, you’re much larger than you used to be. Matrix didn’t take kindly to even the frame we had created for you.”

“The . . . whah?”

_~That was intelligent, love.~_

_~Did he seriously say “Matrix?” And in reference to **me**?~_

Alpha Trion wore a flowing robe of burnished gold, simple but complicated as it concealed his old frame, and fell as if the mech wasn’t bowed by age and failing struts in his back. “Here. Look down. Your chest hasn’t closed yet.”

Chest . . . Primus. Looking down, the mech saw that his coloration hadn’t changed much, but that his frame was nothing like what it had been. Complex layers of armor protected what now resided within his chest, the gentle latticework of unknown materials resting within the bright sphere of light that was his lifesource, augmenting the Spark’s light with its own illumination. Pieces of his frame were still pulling and shifting to a halt. “What . . .”

“You are the next Prime.”

“. . . impossible.”

“Merely improbable, little Spark.”

“But . . .” he felt panic starting to constrict around his chest, causing his vents to fluxuate. Cool hands rested upon the back of his neck, rubbing new cables and calming his Spark at the same time. He reached over his shoulder to pull one rose-hued hand around his broader frame, seeing the femme for the first time. She was all delicate lines, perfectly-angled curves, and her frame was a marvel of engineering and the epitome of physical beauty for a femme. “Oh, _wow_.”

Her laugh was the same, chiming and bright, lifting his mood. She smiled up into his face, and he pulled her new hand to rest upon his new cheek, sighing and shutting his optics off, feeling his Sparkpulse slow and align with his mate’s. He felt her other cool hand reach out without fear to shield his Spark and the Matrix from view of the room, reaching for armor and pulling it gently closed, the manner the same as she would after a night of raw, exhausting, exhilarating lovemaking, caring for him before caring for herself if he were to fall into recharge before settling himself. Three, then four sets of armoring later, and his chest was closed, sealing and settling shut with the hissing and firm clicks of vacuum-magnetic locks.

His hand pressed hers against his cheek, as he felt worn thin by too many changes. His processors were bigger, faster, _more_. . . more something. He could feel _her_ processors through their Bond, and knew that she had wondered the same thing of her own new frame.

“What happened?” he finally asked in a whisper.

Another voice, more bitter than old, answered him. “Falimus’ Matrix announced its next host: you. Before anyone could carry the news out, there were several explosions at the space-dock, causing a cascade explosion that has grounded most of the ships that had been there. Seventy-nine confirmed extinguished, and eighteen still in limbo while medics work upon Spark and frame to keep them with us.”

Looking up, the mech saw his beautiful mate watching his gaze sadly as the new voice continued. “You were both in the initial blast radius. It’s Primus’ hand and protection that kept you both from being extinguished.”

Breaking his gaze from the femme before him, the mech blinked in shock at the medic who addressed him, seeing him wiping his hands off with a rag and watching him coolly. “Senator Ratchet.”

“Mm. My associate, Wheeljack, helped bring your frame together. We had kept your construction as neutral as your prior frame, but apparently, the Matrix deemed you more mech than femme, and did away with much of our work as it recreated your frame to its purpose,” came the wry retort. “Not many femmes have become Primes. Not sure why, but _you’ll_ come to know that sooner or later, no doubt. Now.”

Ratchet bowed respectfully to Alpha Trion, who smiled and replied, “What they told you is the official story. Now let me tell you what _I_ have done. . .”

When he was finished, essentially building a frame that rivaled the durability of the frames of the Original Primes, the young mech’s jaw was hanging open in shock. “But . . . That’s not possible!”

“Merely _improbable_ , I must remind you again. _Nothing_ is truly _impossible_ unless it is you who declares it. Now, on your feet. Femme, out of the way while he relearns to walk. He’s much taller and heavier than he had been, and I’d rather you didn’t get squished.”

“Mm, but he surely can—”

“Ariel!” the mech hissed in mortification, head ducking down between shoulders and his expression showing his desperation that she not continue her words quite so publicly. “Please!”

She laughed brightly, smiling and leaning her hands upon his thighs to push her forehead to his, whispering, “ _There’s_ the Orion I love.” Stepping back, she held her hands out, giving him a goal for him to walk towards.

He would _always_ walk to her, no matter how long it took him to do so.

.o.

Ratchet walked into the barracks, standing at the door to watch the chaos that was reigning in the practice ring. He was waved closer by Terratron, who had the Lord-Presumptive at his side. “So. What’s this?” the Senator asked, startling the younger mech, but not shocking old Terra. He looked the freshly-painted young Lord up and down with a critical eye, noting that the mech had drawn himself up at seeing who was standing beside them.

“You know of Ironhide, of course,” Terratron murmured as he watched the black and red mech move with swift, sure movements.

“I _know_ Ironhide. He makes me want to throw him through a wall head-first most days.”

“He’s proving to Spinox why he’s the Captain of the Guard.”

“And where is my Youngling?”

“Here,” Prowl replied, coming up beside Ratchet, coolly watching the sparring match, which was degenerating into a brawl, what with Chromia, Arcee, Springer, and Juryrig all getting in on an argument, taking sides in the fight.

“I’ll go break it up,” the Lord-Presumptive muttered, about to take a step before Prowl held his hand out, stopping him.

“No. Allow me.”

Glancing red optics down at Ratchet, formerly-Megivor saw startled wariness on the usually-calm visage. A Caretaker . . . wary of the one he raised? He watched Prowl walk up onto the mats with a careless ease, entering the brawl deftly, without being noticed. There was barely a Sparkpulse between him entering the fight and bodies going flying in separate directions, Ironhide actually tumbling _off_ the edge of the fighting mats.

“Are we quite through here?” he said with calm, if edged, tones. “I’m no leader, but I’ll be slagged if I’m going to allow infighting! This isn’t a power-trip, this isn’t a game of who holds the most influence! We’re here to _protect_. Get that through your slagging thick plating. The ceremony’s _tonight_ , and we have to be of _one mind_. I suggest we get to it.”

He turned and stopped dead in his tracks at seeing the timid faces that peered around the doorway, having followed Ratchet out of the private medical ward. Jazz followed his gaze, then jumped to his feet from lounging on extra mats that had been folded and shoved against a wall, bowing with such seriousness that the almost-theatrical sweep of his hands seemed to be appropriate. Every mech who hadn’t met the holder of the Matrix did the same, save for the Lord-Presumptive, who was curiously studying the mech and femme before him.

“Um . . . I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” the deep, but still unsure, voice said into the sudden silence.

“Probably best that you did,” Ratchet quipped, watching Jazz straighten and watch how the duo were moving. He had heard the night before that the little mech was thinking of joining the Enforcers. Even so, he knew that his artistic little processor was running at full speed, writing lyrics to chronicle this moment. Little fragger, thinking that he was going to get out of being a singer so quickly after making his dent in the world. Pah!

The femme seemed to be better at adjusting to a new situation. “I feel that we’re about to be insufferably rude, but we don’t have names yet. Merely functions.”

“You’re not alone on that,” the younger of the two silver mechs replied, optics trained solely upon the large mech, whose construction was truly monstrously large. This . . . _this_ was a Prime.

This was the one whose Spark would be bound to his as brother.

They stared at each other, the nameless mech walking into the room fully, movements still not entirely steady from being reformatted into such a _huge_ frame. Prowl stared up at it, then set himself in a professional mindset. “Hm. Master.”

Terratron smiled, catching the unspoken question. He met the gaze of his once-student, then nodded once. He was ready. Turning, he yelled, “Clear the mats!”

Prowl turned and walked to the center of the mats. He looked to Jazz, who hissed in glee and darted up there. “Young Prime,” he said, his voice carrying weight and sounding older than he actually was by megavorns. “You need to learn self-defense. As Terratron’s protégé is still training under Terra, the training will fall to another mech. I offer you what teaching I can give, and wish to prove that I am capable of what I may teach.”

“Which, mind you, covers the main forms of close-quarters combat,” Ratchet replied. “I assume you’re going through Metallikato first, Enforcer?”

“Yes.”

Terratron grinned. “Metallikato only, then. How about we make this a challenge, Prowl?”

Oh slag. That was _not_ a nice grin. Prowl didn’t let any emotion show as he nodded his deference to the mech, who turned and pointed to the mechs he had taught Metallikato to. “Chromia, Firestar, Springer, Spinox, Nova, get up there.”

“Wait. All at once?” Spinox asked, his deep voice worried.

“Prowl is no casual practitioner. If you are able to scratch his armor, I will be extremely surprised.”

Chromia wasted no time, roaring in glee and darting forward, moving in tandem with Firestar and Jazz, who knew Prowl best. But none of them touched him. He was careful with their fresh finishes, using pushes instead of strikes and keeping himself clear of the two femmes and small mech, picking up two large forms coming up behind him, and Nova, with his optics narrowed, watching him. Doorwings twitching, he leapt up, using the strike that Springer was aiming at him as a handhold to carefully push Spinox off-balance. Frowning, he watched those two as he shoved Firestar into Jazz, tangling those two up as they fell to the ground.

Spinox and Springer were brothers.

This was going to be fun.

Darting under Nova’s swept leg, he pushed it upwards, spinning the mech onto his back, careful not to dent any metal or crack any decorational windshields. He grinned and spun around Chromia’s strike, pulling her arm with one hand and shoving her hip to send her spinning off of the mats and into her mates before gliding between.

“No Diffusion, Prowl!”

“That was from set five, Terra!” he called back, pushing the brothers apart with perfect precision, blinking as he felt the air begin to be disturbed by his right doorwing. Flipping it out of the way and turning, using his motion to attack Jazz, he drove the smaller mech back and tripped him into Nova.

“Huh. Never seen it done with a push instead of a strike, which normally breaks the hip. Not bad.”

“Due to your teaching,” he called over his shoulder as he flattened himself under Springer’s point-kick that would have otherwise hit his left shoulder. Grinning and striking fast, he left scratches that would easily be smoothed over along the vulnerable edges of Springer’s armor before shoving at his hips and darting over the triple-changer.

Another three breems of this, and Terratron called a halt to the exercise. “Well, Prowl?”

“No scratches,” he reported, and his vents kicked up a notch before settling down again. “What next?”

“Wait, what do you mean, what _next_?” the rose-colored femme asked in shock. “You’re not even _venting_ hard!”

“Because this is a challenge, yes, but it’s not the hardest I’ve been run.”

“Yet, Youngling,” Terratron said with a chuckle. “Hmm . . . Arcee. Diffusion, next. Then we’ll get serious.”

That meant Crystoluction. Or Pit-Fighting. Circuit-Su was more of a practice of taming the Spark, rather than an outward attack. That would be a practice that would serve both the Prime and Protectorate _very_ well. Prowl nodded, moving to face Arcee. Both stared at each other before circling slowly. They moved in tandem, mirroring each other’s moves without hesitation. Prowl’s Spark leapt with glee, his doorwings hitching up just a hint. “You’ve been studying for most your life.”

“As have you.”

“It’s an honor to finally test myself against another who has mastered Diffusion.”

She grinned broadly, silvery pink armor settling from a flustered stance to a more at-ease one. This was going to be a wonderful bout. “You have tested yourself against Terra for years, though.”

“That only means that I understand _his_ forms that he prefers. Not all forms fit a frame of his size.”

“Mm. This is going to be fun.”

“I agree.”

Jazz walked back to Ratchet, standing at ease around the mechs that were staring at the two forms on the mats, neither willing to attack yet, just waiting and watching each other’s movements, memorizing what the other was doing. “I haven’t seen Prowl this happy to be practicing since we were Younglings,” the small mech said as he stood between Ratchet and the young Prime.

“You’ve known him so long?” the resonating, stately voice murmured, not able to tear his gaze away from the mechs on the mats.

“Known Prowler—”

“Don’t call me that,” Prowl said firmly, but was still in the moment with the bout, completely undistracted, able to monitor the entire room.

“Psh. Fine. Known _Prowl_ since we were Younglings.” And then Jazz cast his gaze over to the lithe mech with a smile.

“You and he are . . . ?”

“Best friends. Partners in crime,” Ratchet supplied with a bored tone. “Kept me and Jazz’s Caretakers constantly on our guard because of their antics.”

“He’s my mate,” Jazz said firmly. “UnBonded for now, but one day. When we’re ready.”

“You . . . you can _resist_?” the femme said with a curious whisper. “I couldn’t. Neither could . . . neither could my Sparklove.”

“We can resist for however long we want to.” The musician spoke with conviction. “He is the only one I can love. And if he said that he wanted to Bond tonight, well, slag for you guys, ’cause I’d be takin’ him ta Praxus an’ havin’ ourselves a party.”

Ratchet swatted the young mech. “With no consideration for your abused Caretakers in the least.”

“Ow! What?! You’d be invited!”

“I have _duties_ , Jazz!”

“So do I! So does Prowl! But c’mon, let’s be real! Bonding? Or listening to stuffy mechs drone on and on and on and on an—OW! Ratchet, Primus slag!”

The Lord-Presumptive chuckled a touch nervously at seeing Jazz casually baiting Ratchet. He truly had known him for so very long that the violent nature of the once-medic was softened towards those whom he cared for. With a sigh, he looked to the red and blue mech that simply towered over everyone save for Terratron. He was watching in awe as Prowl and Arcee finally broke the circle and were openly attacking each other, moving through forms swiftly and surely, careful not to scratch paint or finishes, but clearly moving at speeds that came from vorns of practicing forms.

The face was that of a firm leader, but was still showing great compassion. Where did this mech come from? He and his mate seemed uniquely suited to the role of being Prime and Prime’s Consort, but he had the feeling that this femme was going to clearly be more of a firecracker than Beta-Two had been. Neither moved like they were from the elite echelon of mechs that comprised the “noble” houses. Ugh. _Nobles._

Keeping the sneer from his face, the Kaon mech continued to look the Young Prime over, seeing how the frame was built heavily, with everything that one could need if they went to war again, but at the same time, all weapons were conspicuously absent. That would mean a great amount to their people, and he knew that the message would be openly understood.

“I carry no weapons while I stand before you now, but that does not mean that am adverse to fighting in order to ensure your safety in the future.”

And by the way that he was watching Prowl and Arcee move in their deadly dance, he was completely untrained in martial arts.

The Lord-Presumptive didn’t want this mech to remain that way, and perhaps that’s what Prowl also saw. It was clear that the Young Prime would need to know how to move while he was with bodyguards if a fight were to break out. Not only would he need to know how to move to stay protected, but he would also wish to learn how to defend himself. He kept clenching his fists, as if frustrated that he wasn’t able to understand all the ways that a mech moved to fight, to be capable of defending one’s Spark and safety.

“Enough,” Terratron called. “You are both of a level that in order to fully test each other and oneself against the other, all prohibitions would have to be dropped. I do not wish for you two to harm each other before the Presentation.”

The bowed in unison to each other, then to their master. Arcee, now at ease, grinned at Prowl, who didn’t let a smile through, but he did nod his head in response, his optics warmer than before. They would go all-out on each other sometime soon.

“Prowl, final test. Because the next two styles are so close in nature, you will be taking on three mechs at once.”

Doorwings finally faltered and drooped to half-mast in shock. Jazz even hissed static and stared at their current leader. But the violet optics didn’t even falter or look at the origin of the sound. “You will be fighting my successor, Ironhide, and Juryrig. You are allowed to use a combination of Crystalocution and Pit Fighting. Death-strikes are barred. Optic-strikes are allowed.”

“What?!” the young Prime hissed in shock.

“Joint strikes are allowed. Dismemberment, so long as it is not decapitation, is allowed.”

Protests rose up, and Terratron out-bellowed them all. “You are grown mechs! Do you see Prowl protesting? If there is an assassination attempt at this point, do you expect _any_ mech to hold back from trying to maim, or extinguish you?!”

Silence echoed through the room, and another voice, equally as old as the Lord Protector, rattled, “I will allow this match as well. I need to see who will be protecting our new Prime and Lord.”

Everyone turned to look at the drawn and tired Sentinel Prime, who had entered with silence some moments before.

Prowl glared at the mech, who was watching him evenly. Barely smoothing his desire to snort, Prowl turned to Terratron, clearly dismissing Sentinel through his mannerisms. “At your word, _my_ Lord.”

That caused the Young Prime to blink and look at Jazz, who shrugged, then to Ratchet, who shook his head minutely. He would have to find out the reasons behind that interaction later. He returned his gaze to the mats, where three hulking mechs stood in an equilateral triangle around the lone Praxian frame. Feeling his femme’s hand slide into his, worry trembling between her Spark and into his, the young Prime set his face to watch this test.

Ratchet spoke out one last warning. “Just remember. _I_ am the attending Medic to this match.”

“Well, slag,” Ironhide said with a snicker. “Looks like the losers’ll have to subject themselves to your tender, loving mercies!”

“This is a test for Prowl, not a test among yourselves!” Terratron snarled, his patience finally wearing thin. “If you wish to be tested, _I_ will be the one administering the test!”

Silenced, shamed, the mechs stared at Prowl. Juryrig stood directly behind him, which he thought put him at an advantage. Ironhide, who knew many Praxian Guards and Enforcers, knew Prowl had all three of them on his sensors and in “plain view,” as it were. The Lord-Presumptive knew Prowl could all but see expressions with the sensors on his doorwings. He sent a burst message to Ironhide and Juryrig. _:Ignore his door-wings. I don’t want to know what that’ll do to him if those get injured.:_

 _:Wise move. I’ve seen mechs downed instantly with them pulled off or injured . . . They wake up as **very** unhappy warriors who will raise Pit for the one who harmed them.:_ Ironhide looked to Juryrig, who didn’t seem to care about what they were discussing. That was when something tickled the back of Ironhide’s mind.

Juryrig was a bully.

And this bully was going to try to best a mech that he felt was too proud, arrogant, and held himself above his station.

“Begin!”

_:Slaggin’ bad time to begin, Terra. Juryrig’s gonna hurt Prowl.:_

_:It’s expected that he’ll try. I have confidence in the Praxian, Ironhide. You and my successor work together to try to best Prowl as a team.:_

Battle ensued.

The prior matches were all about testing and trying Prowl, set up so that he would be exhausted physically and mentally because of the respective group attacking him and the challenge of a master in Diffusion. It was all setting him up for this.

Ratchet’s optics narrowed as he watched the tumble of mechs trying to catch and break Prowl. He did _not_ like this, and neither did Jazz, who was trembling with his desire to keep still between him and the Young Prime. Just as the Senator was about to put his hand on Jazz’s shoulder, a gunmetal-silver hand did just that, startling the musician into looking up at him. But the large mech was keeping his gaze locked on the forms that moved quickly. No words were said, none needed to be said, but Jazz felt at that moment that even though there was going to be a bad ending to the battle, it was going to be a burden shared among newfound friends.

Prowl was evading every hand or foot that came his way as he logged how each mech fought. Each of them moved slightly differently. Ironhide wasn’t slow, but he was the slowest of the trio. He had heavy hands, and knew how to take an opponent down fast. Juryrig was the second-fastest, with a distinctly _nasty_ edge to his movements, clearly mixing a dirty street-fighting style in with Crystalocution. The next Lord was _fast_ , with hands that were good for gripping and tearing, which he was trying to do on armor plating that reinforced joints.

The youngest mech on the ring lost himself in the series of movements, counter-movements, strikes, evades, and hearing his opponents howl as he finally scored against their frames. Juryrig’s hip armor came free with a twisted yank, and wires disconnected by Prowl’s clawed fingers. His battle computer was running simulations, tactics, and he surrendered himself to the fight, hissing as fingers clipped his wings. He spun, putting his whole weight behind a kick that crumpled someone’s knee, face lifted in a silent snarl as he dodged and wove around, jamming stiff fingers _through_ armor and ripping it free, tossing it without a thought. He heard a grunt of discomfort and a mech left the fight.

One down. Two to go.

Just as he was about to dispatch Ironhide, something grabbed his right doorwing.

And crushed.

Shrieking, Prowl went down on hands and knees before his tactics computer rerouted pain, but not fast enough as the opposite doorwing was suddenly _not there._

Blackness surrounded his world.

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Wrote this before leaving for Botcon, but I didn’t get the chance to upload it due to just how exhausting the con became. Writing kept me from going nutso and panicking about traveling. I love flying, but damn if I hadn’t worried about the entire trip going well. This was my first time out on the West Coast, and there were too many variables for me to feel comfortable that everything will be going perfectly as planned. (Post-Botcon note: while things didn’t go EXACTLY as planned, it went smoothly and without too much tension or chaos.)_

_There’ll be another update soon with the conclusion of the fight in a day or so. Sorry about the cliffhanger, but after 15 single-spaced pages in Word, I figure that I don’t want to overwhelm ya with another ten pages. That, and it’s late and I’m tired and don’t feel like fighting with my browser._

_Song is: “Never Be The Same” by Red._


	20. Mnemonic Arc 7: Mirror

Jazz fell to his knees in shock at seeing one precious doorwing dropped to the mats with utter disregard. Ratchet’s armor rose with indignation, anger and shock. _Violence_ bled from his motions, his desire to avenge the hurt that Prowl had been dealt all but causing him to run onto the mats to defend his Sparkling. But when Prowl’s head turned slowly, with a calculated movement so as to glare up at Juryrig, the medic felt a cold hand begin to constrict around his Spark . . . he knew what that look meant. Nevertheless, Jazz grabbed Ratchet’s hand, keeping him from walking into the raised square.

Even Terratron was still. _:Nobody. Move.:_

“Poor Sparkling can’t get up?”

_:Primus, I hope he doesn’t kill him, even if it’s a deserved death. Anyone weak-tanked, turn off all external sensors off and wait for my signal. Kill your audio especially. This is going to be tough.:_

Juryrig grinned and stared down at the dead-opticked stare that Prowl had on his face. “Guess that you’re not the best of us after all, huh, kid?”

Prowl struck, pure efficiency in each motion as his fingers gripped one optic sensor and shattered with powerful fingers curling spasmodically around the sensor, silent as he bled energon and coolant from his back and onto the mats. Spinning to his feet, he grabbed two of Juryrig’s fingers, pulling them clear off before the first shout of anguish had even reached its peak.

Jazz stared, unable to tear his gaze away from the killing machine whose berth he had shared the prior night. He made fighting into an art, a dance, one where his partner hadn’t the faintest chance of keeping up or catching up. Not one movement held any excess. Once a motion was started, it was completed. Energon lines were ripped free, coolant lines sliced with clawed fingers, hydraulics were twisted, even knotted and kinked and pinned under armor so that they would pop free and cause limbs to seize at the worst opportune moment.

Metal shrieked as it was ripped.

Shattered sensors along his frame hissed and sizzled with static and sparks.

Vocals were crimped towards the end. There wasn’t enough damage to call them a complete loss, but the sudden lack of the noises of pain that the bully had been emitting was disorientating.

Juryrig was a whimpering, trembling ball on the mats when Prowl deemed him no longer a threat. The mech turned, optics scanning over the remaining mechs, seeing carefully-submissive poses. No more mechs wished to challenge him. Good. He would tear the next challenger apart.

_:Anyone know how to bring a berserker back from the edge?:_ the Young Prime whispered along the com-line, gaze never wandering above the mech’s hips, the same as many others. To make visual contact would instigate another fight. He felt his Sparkmate’s trembling through his Spark. She was less of a physical fighter than he was, and he wasn’t a fighter in the least. He soothed her wordlessly, his Spark thankfully close enough that he could send a pulse of calmness to her. She hadn’t looked away from the scene, even though the sight was something she had _never_ seen before.

_:A familiar face, familiar voice . . . if he and Jazz were Bonded, Jazz could pull him back through their Bond,:_ Ironhide answered, not knowing any other way that Prowl could be calmed down. They usually relied upon their doorwinged psychologist to help draw others back to sanity in the Guard. But Smokescreen was making his way back from attending the upgrade celebration of his younger brother from Sparkling to Younging in Praxus . . . he was still a joor away at _least._

Silence was a heavy pall that the room and those in the room bore, broken only by the hisses and shuttering static cries of pain that Juryrig was emitting. Prowl’s optics locked onto Sentinel Prime’s, then narrowed. He took a step towards the large red mech, seeing the one whose careless disregard had caused that fateful suicide of his Caretaker.

A soft chant, an old song, one of the classical pieces, whispered to life from one very scared singer. The first notes echoed around the room like a dirge, but as the mech grew in confidence, as the notes strengthened into what the song originally was about, it was as if the words could be seen as the Praxian turned towards the noise, drawn towards it like a turbofox towards a warm crystal.

Jazz still couldn’t stand. He hadn’t known what Prowl was truly capable of, and some part of his Spark was scared at seeing this side of him. But maybe his song, his voice, could pull the mech back from the edge. He met the dead gaze fearlessly, his velvet, sweet voice ensnaring the berserker with a gentleness that not many would have dreamed could come from the tough little mech. Prowl, one doorwing gone, the other crumbled halfway to the Pit, knelt upon one knee before Jazz, gazes locked as the notes of the song grew into the complicated climax, caressing and calming, soothing and freeing.

Vents shuttered and Prowl keened in pain, his battle computer giving way to his normal processors. His balance wavering, Jazz reached up to help him slowly to the ground, guiding his head down upon one leg to rest it there as Ratchet knelt and began to turn pain sensors off with swift fingers, giving the mech he raised some relief from the pain, wincing as he had to use one that would numb his entire left arm because the other sensor had been torn free with the doorwing.

Jazz lowered his voice, murmuring the song and caressing the helm in his lap. He didn’t expect the Young Prime to kneel beside Ratchet, hand resting over the yellow armor of his wrist. “I’m . . . I used to be a welder at the Docks. I can help you . . . and Prowl.”

Giving the mech one long stare, Ratchet nodded. “Get his doorwing.” Tearing his gaze away from the young Prime, the old medic whispered with a gentleness that not many had seen before, “Prowl? Come on, Sparklet, let’s get you to the medical ward.”

“What happened?” Prowl whispered.

“Later.”

“Who do I hear in pain?”

“Juryrig.”

“Did . . . why can’t I feel my left doorwing?”

“It’s not there, little Spark.”

“I . . . I don’t remember . . .”

“It’s all right. You were defending yourself.”

“Why don’t I remember?”

“I don’t know, but berserk rages happen to mechs with doorwings or advanced battle computers . . . and you have both.”

“Primus above . . .”

“Hush, Sparklet, hush now.”

“You . . .” a voice whispered, watching the mechs hovering Prowl. Ratchet looked up to identify Arcee. “Aren’t you the Devil Medic?”

“Yes. And after Detrious . . . left us . . . I became Caretaker of the Sparkling left behind. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to let some _other_ medic take care of that miserable mess on the mats. He’ll live. But he’s learned that doorwinged mechs are _not_ to be toyed with. I want him off the Honor Guard, Terra.” Ratchet, at seeing that Prowl was still too shaken to stand on his own, bent to wrap an arm around the mech. He glared around the room. “Let this be a lesson to you about what happens _after_ a mech is brought back to his senses.”

“Weak as an orn-old Sparkling,” the Lord-Presumptive murmured, watching the young Prime’s Sparkmate help Jazz to his feet. “Primus . . . I never saw that coming.”

“Nor will you,” Ratchet snarked, then blinked as the doorwing was held out to him.

He took it automatically, but was shocked as the Young Prime bent to curl the Praxian frame into his arms, the weight not even causing him to pause. Everyone ignored Prowl’s protests as he was carried through the back hallways and up into the medical ward. Junior medics ambled past them, wincing and whispering condolences, congratulations of a fight well-won and well-wishes of a speedy recovery to Prowl, who was now a solid mass of shadow-pain, misery, and humiliation.

Jazz accepted their words. They smiled, not pausing on their way to the sparring room to treat Juryrig. Footsteps hurried to keep up with the trio. Looking over his shoulder, the small entertainer saw the Young Prime’s mate and the Lord-Presumptive running to catch up with them. Ratchet turned into the rooms that had held the new Young Prime, only to collide with Wheeljack.

Cursing and snarling, Ratchet glared down at his mate, and was shocked into taking a step back when Wheeljack gave him a glare just as good as he had gotten. The mech pointed the Young Prime to a table. “Put him there. I designed his frame.” Silently, he added to the mech he loved, _:Ratchet, you’re too emotionally-tangled to be in charge of fixing him. I’ll let you help once you’ve calmed down.:_

Walking him to the table, and settling Prowl on his aft, the Young Prime and his soon-to-be-brother worked in tandem to help him lie down without jostling his frame any more than it had been. “I didn’t know that anyone could move like you have today, Prowl. It’s . . . I would be honored to learn from you.”

“From a mech whose doorwings were ripped off?” the black-and-white ground out between gritted denta.

“From a mech who didn’t even stop fighting when his weakest point was exploited.”

Prowl looked up at the red and blue mech with a calculating glance that Jazz knew well. Resting his head back down on crossed arms when he felt the pressure of Wheeljack’s fingers probing the wounds carefully, he murmured, “Talk later.”

“O-of course.”

The inventor, engineer, and upgrade specialist stood back and stared at the mess that was the back of a mech he adored like his own grown Sparkling. “I’m going to take your other wing off, Prowl, and repair as much of your back as possible, then put some smooth armor over what wasn’t repaired. That’s option one. Option two is for me to rush together a doorwing that _looks_ real, but isn’t. Those are the two things I can prepare before the ceremony tonight.”

“Long-term?” Prowl murmured.

“I can redesign your back. Doorwings can be detached, but only with extreme force and with a neural command, or they could be harder to pull off, which means that they could also sustain more damage. Or . . . and this is speculation, I could combine those two options.”

Processing the options, he answered with, “Give me a smooth back. The damaged wing is misfiring, and it’s giving me a processor ache. I’ll feel half-blind, but I can function without them and balance without them. As for long-term, I have enough credits to pay your research for making less-vulnerable sensory wings.”

“It’s _my_ project, on _my_ free time. You’re not paying for one breem of it. Power down, now, before you crash because of low energon levels.”

Jazz had moved up to Prowl’s head, and he stroked the helm gently while Prowl trembled, not liking being repaired in a semi-public setting. One white hand trapped Jazz’s black one within it, and with that security, he slipped into a medical recharge. Jazz smiled and sighed. “Primus above, he can scare me.”

The Young Prime nodded, but it was the nameless femme who spoke. “As much as it’s scary to see and hear what he’s capable of, if I were in your situation, I would be feeling reassured, actually.”

Jazz’s whole attention was still focused upon Prowl, watching Wheeljack move quickly to seal the torn fluid tubes, then pull the other doorwing off with careful movements. But he nodded, indicating that he was processing her words. Ratchet looked up from where he had settling himself against one of the counters. “’Jack.”

Reading the tones of his voice with ease, Wheeljack nodded. “I need you to finish his back up while I go get more armor. Please log where all damage is on a holofile, as well as how severe it is.”

Taking the orders without a word, giving his mate control even though it chafed at him and his flaws, Ratchet bowed to do the repairs on the finely-wrought frame. Wheeljack, before leaving, looked back at the femme who was worrying her hands before her. He looked to her mate, who had paused his concerned look for Prowl to replace it with gentle indulgence. Coughing static once, softly, catching their attention, the engineer asked, “Would you two like to help me while Ratchet finishes Prowl’s repairs? My hands aren’t meant for cutting and shaping metal, just . . . designing the shapes.”

The pair looked relieved to have something to do, and they followed with murmured pardons. The Lord-Presumptive stared at Prowl for one moment longer, then followed the trio out. He was no help in a medbay, but perhaps he would be of some use with his brother-to-be. The Young Prime asked in a soft voice, “Have you ever felt . . .”

After he fell silent for a moment, seemingly deciding to not say what was on his mind, Wheeljack opened a door to the manufacturing lab, pulling out a sheet of the right metals from the wall to measure it and place it upon a stand, setting the holographic imager up to project what he was aiming to do. “Hm?”

“Well . . . Prowl and Jazz.”

Smiling, Wheeljack pulled up a full-size hologram of the original protoform for Prowl’s adult frame, letting everything detail its way in slowly, turning it so that he could see how he had constructed the mech’s back. “Special couple, neither completely mech nor femme, but a perfect balance of both and for both together. They exhibit perfect opposite traits.”

“Have . . . you ever felt when you met someone . . . that . . . that your lives were seemingly forged together from that point onwards?” the Young Prime finally asked.

Pausing the holographic reconstruction, Wheeljack looked to the mech. “You are Prime.”

“I haven’t been _named_ —”

“Kid. You have the Matrix sitting around your Spark?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re Prime.”

“How does that figure into this?”

“The Matrix, according to my research, lets the Prime know which mechs are good candidates for being long-term confidants, friends. Compatible Sparks with traits that complement the Prime and Lord are hard to find, but sometimes,” Wheeljack paused, looking up at the mech with a smile, “providence happens. Primus was looking out for you two from the start, and I highly doubt that He’s done looking out for you yet.”

Frowning, but accepting this answer, the Young Prime and his mate watched as Wheeljack worked in his field, turning the hologram this way and that once the doorwings were gone. He didn’t make any modifications on the hologram, just letting his optics follow the lines of the armor. “Hm. Prime’s Consort . . . you know how to do detailing and paintwork?”

“I . . . I used to.”

Smiling, irrepressible as always, Wheeljack bounced over to another table where there were unadorned scrap pieces of armor, gathering an armful up and then taking up some of the black and white paint that he knew Prowl preferred for their pearlescent finish. “Here. Practice on these. It’s airbrushing. White will be the base, and the black will go on over it later for details.”

“Why are you giving us something to do? You could easily just . . . have us gone and do this yourself,” the Young Prime murmured, glancing to the Lord-Presumptive, who was standing behind the former dockworkers, his presence a reassuring comfort.

The response was spoken around a kind grin which was aimed at all three. “Because you’re the type of Sparks that like doing things. I saw how you picked Prowl up, and I saw how you helped Jazz to his feet, and then you both stuck close to them, but felt awkward when something was beyond you. I saw how you put yourself between the two mechs, Young Lord, in case there was retaliation.”

_:Prowl’s up. He and Jazz are sharing a moment.:_ Ratchet opened the door to see Wheeljack turning back to designing the temporary armoring for Prowl. He walked up to stand behind his friend and mate, watching literally over his shoulder as armor plates were drawn and contoured to blend in perfectly with what Prowl already had. “How soon until you have replacement doorwings for him?”

“Three orns, tops, and he’s of no use to the Enforcers until they’re back on, unless he takes on some deskwork. I’ve already sent out an order for two sets. I don’t want to be stuck without replacements for his specific systems at any point.”

“You know that he’s not going to want to be stationed with the Enforcers in Iacon.”

“Of course. But that doesn’t mean that Praxus will have all the specs he desires on their standard or even their _advanced_ doorwings. And since you become emotionally compromised when he’s injured, I’ll be letting him know that he has to call _me_ when this happens again.”

“Why not if?” the consort asked as she practiced painting.

“Doorwings are a target, no matter what kind they are. They could be _kibble_ and someone will automatically target them, thinking them to be a vulnerability,” Ratchet muttered, watching Wheeljack’s motions at designing.

Finally, the mech looked to the Young Prime. “Do you need a pattern etched out, or are you able to do this intuitively?”

Walking up to look at the model, the Young Prime peered at the hologram, walking back and forth to see the contours and shapes. “This is to scale?”

“Yes.”

“I won’t need a pattern etched. However, bending the metal may be a problem.”

“Oh?”

The Young Prime looked to his almost-brother, a hopeful look upon his face. “You . . . look like you have slept beside a forge.”

“What’s it to you?” he asked defensively. Mining and forge mechs were generally looked down upon by most Iaconians.

The Young Prime shook his head, letting his hand drift outwards and down from chest level to hip in the motion for “don’t get torqued off.” He smiled reassuringly. “I used to sleep under the half-repaired quantum drives in the docks. I would have preferred the warmth of a forge to the chill of the dead engines. What my point is, you know how best to bend metal and there is a forge here.”

Turning, the as-yet-unnamed mech looked at the forge, taking a step towards it before looking to Wheeljack, who had his hands on his hips and was watching him closely.

“What?”

The engineer smiled. “You’re among mechs who work with their hands for a living, and take pride in what we are able to achieve with the talents that Primus gave to us. As Lord Protectorate, you will have to be mindful of the _general_ public’s opinion. But not with those who will be personally assisting you during your tenure.”

The once-gladiator looked from face to face before he approached the forge fully, running his hand over the cool ceramic surface before running his hand in and out of the flames briskly, holding the slightly-heated appendage up before his almost-aristocratic-yet-scarred face. He smiled and murmured, “Not the best forge I’ve seen, but certainly the best I’ve seen in Iacon.” His ruby gaze turned to the mech he was soon to be joined with, his expression at peace, happy. “Shall we . . . brother?”

The Young Prime bowed his head, an inclination of assent between equals. “I would be honored, brother.”

The Prime’s Consort smiled at the exchange, then returned to her work of painting practice. It would be good for her Sparkmate to have this equal mech in his life as Prime. They were much of a kind.

She didn’t see Ratchet watching her reaction just as closely, before the mech turned away to grin to Wheeljack. Hardworking, formerly-common mechs becoming Prime, Protectorate, and Prime’s Consort? This was going to be an interesting Age.

.o.

Prowl looked up from his now-sleeping mate’s face, his gaze cautious until he saw who entered, and what they entered with. His mouth opened, but he caught his words, watching as the Young Prime and Lord-Presumptive moved with corresponding actions to reattach the armor over where doorwings once had been, hands gentle. Looking up at their faces, he saw them smiling. His voice caught in his throat again.

“We are honored that you fought to your current full extent,” his former-roommate said in his gravelly tones. “And I am honored to call you a friend.” He looked as if he had more to say, but he turned and gestured for his almost-brother to continue.

“We are honored that you saw through the strategy of the now-imprisoned Juryrig,” the Young Prime intoned in a voice that seemed older, more confident, than even a joor before. “And I ask that you may consider transferring to Iacon. Your skills are a gift, ones that I feel would be better serving on a larger scale than merely being a street enforcer.”

His mind fizzled slightly before he gripped at his head, feeling new plates settling and sliding not uncomfortably over his back. “You . . . what do you want me to be here?”

“Head of security?” the Young Prime asked timidly.

“Primus forbid,” Prowl groaned. “I would be bored out of my processors.”

“You could be part of our administrative team?” the Lord-Presumptive offered.

“To do what?” the mech asked, looking between the two of them, shaking his head. “There are mechs with better programming for that than I have. I enjoy working with the Enforcers, I enjoy keeping people safe. I do not want to be more than what I am right now. Not yet.”

Glancing to one another, the mechs frowned, not sure where to go with this. Ratchet, standing behind them, had his grin hid in his hand. The Prime’s Consort spoke up, after a moment of somewhat-uncomfortable silence. “I think what he’s saying, boys, is that he wishes to stay as an Enforcer for now, but being your friend is an open option.” She grinned. “You can always try to harass him into joining the Militia later.”

Prowl’s gaze snapped to the femme. “No. Not the militia. I will not fight an enemy I cannot see. But I will hear your arguments out for joining the Iaconian Enforcers . . . someday.”

The Young Prime looked baffled, but his counterpart roared a laugh, startling Jazz awake. “I see the game you’re playing, Prowl! Come, wake your lover, and let’s return to where we left off with the others.” He blinked at the diminutive mech glaring at him from Prowl’s lap. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Forgot mah audios?”

“Yeah. Sorry, Jazz.”

“Not yet you ain’t!” Grinning, Jazz launched himself at the Lord-Presumptive, who laughed and caught him by the foot, holding him upside-down, causing a raucous cussing-out of the larger mech. Prowl slid to his feet and swiftly disengaged the Young Lord’s hand and swung Jazz off to one side.

“I can still wipe the training room floor with your face. Let’s go.”

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** This was a bit of a tedious chapter to write, mainly because I started writing it while I was on the plane to LA, then finished it as I sat in the LA airport and waited to board my plane, which isn’t for another 6 hours. (Got there early because I came with other TF/BW authors I’ve known since somewhere between 2002 and 2004.) So if it reads a bit wonky, blame jetlag and overexcitement from Botcon._

_The song is “Mirror” by Era._

_I’ve been noticing that I haven’t been doing a lot of songs with words for this arc . . . I think it’s got to do with the fact that you can’t really capture in English the sort of culture that the Cybertronians have, and I subconsciously don’t even want to begin to start comparisons between Earth and Cybertron yet._


	21. Mnemonic Arc 8: Tron Legacy

TWDTH 21 Mnemonic Arc 8  
Tron Legacy

The ceremony was something that had been part of their culture since the moment they were truly Transformers. It was a changing of the guard, a shift in the powers that be, and a moment that happened only very rarely, maybe once in a lifetime, if you were a long-lived Spark. The Honor Guard walked in a rigid formation around those who came to stand before the Prime and Protectorate, as if to shield them from harm. Since there was now an uneven number in the Guard, the formation had one to lead before the pair, leaving the rest to surround them.

Prowl was mortified that he was chosen unanimously to be that leader. In part, he knew it was vanity, since his doorwings had been removed for his best health. But the majority of his discomfort had to be because of the way that everyone would be watching him. The leader of the Honor Guard usually was one of the Guard or Militia, a tested fighter. Never had it been a mere Enforcer, by comparison.

But he stood to his usual height, watching how the crowds clamored for those who were to be the next leaders. Since he was leading them, he couldn’t see how the trio were handling all this attention. He had the feeling that the Young Prime was a bit cowed by how exuberant those gathered were, even with limited sensors to rely upon. In contrast, he _knew_ what the Lord-Presumptive was doing . . . he was drinking in the attention. He had been cheered on before, and it was nothing new to him to have the attention of many mechs.

There was a specific lineup, with reasons for the particular setup. The Young Prime stood behind and a step to Prowl’s left side. He was flanked by Ironhide, whose role to the reformatted and redesigned mech was that of Guardian. Prime’s Consort was following her Bondmate, and to her right was Chromia. Behind Chromia was Firestar and Spinox. The bulky and strong mech was there to protect the lighter-built femme if the need arose.

Megatron, who stood behind and a step to Prowl’s right side, had Springer pacing with his long-legged and distinctive on-duty pace. He was followed by his unBonded mate Arcee, who had adopted a similar fashion of walking. Behind her was Nova, who was followed by Jazz. That fact, to many of the gathered mechs, was saying something about Jazz.

Prowl felt a surge of pride for his mate. This was telling people quite plainly that Jazz was a force to be reckoned with. Being the wheelman, the anchor of a Guard line, was saying that they could not just take care of themselves, but that they could also take care of anyone in front of them. This would not only help Jazz’s self-esteem boost itself, but it would also bring him recognition globally. Because he was now connected with the Primes and Iacon, he would be in greater demand artistically.

Although, that may not even budge his determination to become an Enforcer.

They reached the Temple of Primus in Iacon, where Prime would be fulfilling his office as intercessor between the citizenry and the AllSpark and even Primus Himself. Prowl paused at the foot of the grand stairway, staring up at the two lone figures who stood at the top.

Primus above, he hated Sentinel.

Setting his jaw, he raised his hands, entreating the crowd for silence. Even if they had amplifiers hidden on their frames, he didn’t want to have to yell to be heard. The quietness rippled outward from his motion like the ripples formed by a ball bearing dropped into energon. He waited until he could hear his fluid pumps, knowing that the prolonged silence worried some, but drew everyone into a breathless moment of anticipation. His opening words were scripted, but the words that he would speak after the formal, official opening would be unique. He knew that they would be recorded in the annals of their people, and that thought, while it scared him, had also caused him to collaborate with Jazz on only a few portions of the small speech.

“We come to challenge the Prime and Protectorate for their positions as Leaders of our planet Cybertron, under the guidance of Primus.”

“Who are you to challenge us, Herald?” Sentinel Prime boomed, glaring down at the mech who bore many of the same traits as his late tactician.

This was the part that would either make or break the moment. Prowl raised his head even higher, his manner that of his Sparked Caretaker. “I, Prowl, Sparkling of Detrious, _your_ former Tactician and Second, speak on behalf of the Nameless! I have tested the battle prowess of the Lord-Presumptive with my bare hands! I have tested the compassion of the Young Prime with my very Spark, and I stand before you with challenge and prejudice to say that it is _their_ time to guide, lead, reign and _bring Cybertron to new glories as she has never been brought to before!”_

The crowd went _insane_. They caught his excitement, they caught his passion, and they followed it with clear love. He shouted over their cheering. “I bring to you the candidates! A mech reborn to be Prime, with his Sparkbonded Consort, and a mech reforged in the fires of Kaon to be Lord High Protector! I implore you, no, I _challenge_ you to find fault in their Sparks and in their ability to lead this planet to prosperity, peace, and artistic heights!”

_:Primus, Prowl . . . you should have been the entertainer,:_ Jazz whispered along a private line, awe entangling his words together.

_:Never. I prefer watching you bring a crowd to their knees, pounding fists to the ground in applause for your talent and voice.:_ Prowl kept his gaze upon the now-shocked leader of the Priests of Primus, knowing that his gaze was decidedly chilled and cool, almost icy in their determination to not release the Prime.

_:Do you think that you might have over-done it, mechling?:_ Terratron’s amused voice said on another private channel. _:Although, I haven’t seen Sentinel this speechless since Beta-Two had told him that he’d have better luck with a maintenance drone than gaining her romantic attention.:_

Prowl _almost_ broke into laughter at that, but he made sure to keep his gaze solid. _:Perhaps we can talk about this over some energon?:_

_:Later, kid. He’s gathered himself again.:_

“Bring them to us,” Sentinel intoned.

On Prowl’s cue, they began ascending the stairs steps in synch until Prowl was three steps away from the leaders. As they had walked up the stairs, the Honor Guard had fanned out from either side of the new leaders, who were two steps behind Prowl, until they were at a forty-five-degree angle to the straight lines that they had once been in. Prowl turned to face the next leaders of their world, making optic-contact with each in turn before walking between them and taking his place at the end of the line, between Spinox and Jazz, turning again with swift precision in order to face towards the top of the stairs again.

A serious of questions and answers followed this, all words rehearsed and ceremonial and dull as a long and slow orn of paperwork.

_:High grade after this?:_ Terra asked as Prime began questioning his successor, his nonverbal tone bored. From the transmission, Prowl saw that it was directed to everyone on the stairs, even the Young Prime and his Consort.

_:Primus save me, I hate ceremonies,:_ Sentinel replied. _:Good luck, Young Prime, with finding meaning in them. I wish you all the best. Figure out a way to get through them quickly, else you’ll end up fritzing your processor.:_

_:Noted,:_ the Young Prime replied, even as he answered the question favorably. _:What high grade will be there?:_

_:Kaon brews?:_ the Lord-Presumptive asked hopefully.

_:By the Thirteen, will you **please** stop pouring that into your system?!: _Prowl hissed over the line. _:I swear that stuff is caustic enough to cause your tanks to rust! I have enough Praxian cubes to go around, but I promised Ratchet not to bring it out unless **he** is invited as well.:_

Sentinel had started, even minutely, at hearing Prowl talking candidly over the connection, but he didn’t pause his speech.

_:I have some rare Iacon brew . . . four thousand deca-vorns old,:_ Ironhide said smugly.

_:It’s still younger than you,:_ Arcee teased.

_:I happen to like my mech with a bit of age on him,:_ Chromia countered smugly, not a whit of her current troublemaking mood expressed upon her face.

Jazz was the next to speak up. _:I have a few cubes of Polyhex to bring to the party.:_

_:Only so long as you sing, too,:_ Nova said a bit shyly. _:I saw one of your performances a half-vorn ago and I still can’t get the haunting quality of your voice out of my processor cache.:_

Prowl could feel the shock radiating outwards from his mate, but Jazz didn’t give off any other indication that he was that shocked. _:Well, only if the new leaders would like me to . . .:_

_:Yes!:_

_:Absolutely, Jazz.:_

_:Primus, even your humming was addictive when we were rooming together. It’d be nice to know what the words were, you know, **some** day.:_

Prowl was aware of a subtle shift of Jazz’s stance, as if he were just straightening up and shifting his weight very slightly.

Communications shut down. Now it was for the part where it was more than a ceremony. This was the point where it would show whether Primus agreed that these two should be brothers. This was the point that everyone held their breath for.

Sentinel looked up at the star-studded sky above them, then looked down at his hands, which were clasped before him. Prowl, who had seen the videos of Sentinel’s induction, knew that something had gone amiss.

The words that followed were even less reassuring. “My people, I . . . have not heard Primus since my beloved Beta passed into His arms. I . . . regret . . . to inform you that it is upon my choosing, and I was the one who pushed Primus out of my Spark. I resign from the post of Prime, to step into obscurity as your new Prime rises.”

Terratron stared at his brother in shock, and murmurs began to run through the crowd. How would the new Prime become who he was to be? How could he be inducted into the office of Prime without the prayer? Why hadn’t Sentinel Prime spoken of this before?!

Prowl looked to Jazz, who was glancing at him. They looked to Spinox, who shook his head as well. Spinox had a mystical bent to his Spark, but not enough to become a dedicated Priest. He looked to Arcee, Nova, Chromia and Firestar, but the femmes were looking at each other, then focusing upon the Prime’s Consort. Ironhide and Springer looked to each other, then up at Sentinel, who stood with his head still aimed to the ground, hands palm-forward at hip-level in the submissive surrender pose.

_:Prowl?:_

_:Primus, Terra, what?:_

_:You . . . and the others . . . know how to focus Spark energy.:_

_:Only a few of us.:_

_:Yes. It may be powerful enough to capture Primus’ attention.:_

_:That’s unheard of!:_

_:So is a Prime cutting himself off from Primus. And we have no Priests who are willing to submit so readily to a Prime again.:_

_:What the **slag** has been going on?! Why didn’t you **tell** me he’d been continuing to cause trouble?: _Prowl hissed along his connection to his mentor and master.

_:There would have been nothing you could have done. Hopefully, this young mech can win their favor and support again. Please, Prowl.:_

He nodded tersely, focusing on stilling his Spark before opening another select channel. _:Jazz, Arcee, Firestar, Spinox. It’s on us. The Priests have forsaken Sentinel, and he’s in total disgrace. We know Circuit-su, and we know how to focus our Sparks on something. Peace. Calm. Stillness. Understanding of balance.:_

_:I . . . don’t know it as well as the rest of ya,:_ Jazz said slowly.

_:It’s about the intent of your Spark, not the technique,:_ Arcee replied gently, still staring at the Prime’s Consort.

_:I can help guide you, lover. Now. We want this to look planned.:_

_:We have to include the Prime’s Consort,:_ Spinox said quickly, looking around at the other four mechs. _:Even numbers. And she has the Spark for this. Arcee confirmed it.:_

_:She in on the conversation?:_

_:Yes,:_ came the soft but determined reply. _:What do you need me to do?:_

Within a fraction of a breem, Prowl outlined what he figured would work best, with Jazz adding to the pacing and timing of it. As one, the Guards began to slowly converge upon the Young Prime, who was still staring in shock at the mech who would be his mentor. He tore his gaze from the red mech five steps above him, looking at those who stood around him, none within reaching distance, arranged mech-femme-mech-femme-mech-femme. Prowl looked to Spinox, then Jazz. The largest mech in the “inner circle” spoke.

“Our Prime has forsaken us. As citizens and servants of Cybertron, as those who will help you serve our people, we will petition for your acceptance before Primus.”

The simple words were well-spoken in the rich tones of the broad mech, causing another ripple of astonishment to flow outwards. Spinox drew a fresh draft of air through his vents, focusing and going into the hushed moment with peace, triggering the other two mechs and three femmes in with him. The Consort gasped, then steadied and stared directly into the Young Prime’s gaze, optics burning brightly.

Something . . . indescribable passed among the six. Something . . . greater than them. This . . . something . . . rested in the center of their Sparks, and yet it was not of them. It was everything, and nothing. It was alien and familiar.

It was _Him_.

The Young Prime threw his head back, optics off-lined as he stood still, rigid.

It was an eternity, and it was only a micro-click in time.

It was over.

They didn’t know the words they were then speaking, but from five vocal processors, each synchronized and spoke in a harmonic that haunted all who had heard it and all who would ever hear it.

“Arise, Optimus Prime, and serve Cybertron. Arise, Elita-One, Sparkmate of Optimus Prime, and stand beside the other half of your Spark.”

The turned as one, and focused upon the Lord-Presumptive, who was looking _decidedly_ weirded-out.

“Stand firm, Megatron, Lord High Protector of Cybertron. Defend and serve Cybertron.”

And just like that, the moment passed.

Those who spoke sagged, wavering on their balance as if the strings which had held them upright had been cut with a razor. Hands went out to catch them and settle them gently upon the steps. Jazz groaned, holding his head between his hands, curling up to keep himself from wavering. “Woah.”

Prowl’s head was hanging between his shoulders, but he looked to Spinox, who was grinning, looking as if he were still staring into Eternity. Elita-One looked to the five around her and her mate, Optimus Prime, each trying to get their equilibrium back. She smiled and looked up at softly-shining blue optics, which were taking in the scene of the five mechs seated around them, then looking up to Megatron. He released her hand, cupping her cheek before reaching it out to the silver mech, who mirrored his movements, grasping hands and drawing in deep breaths before shutting optics off, feeling energy fields fluctuate then synchronize.

Following that came Spark-paces.

Unlike the Sparkmate Bond, a sibling Bond didn’t need to have open Spark-casing and armor peeled away. It required Sparks that could shift paces and settle together, creating a harmonic that resonated between both Sparks, giving each a sense of empathy for the other.

Just like that, it was done. The brothers looked up at each other, before looking out over the crowd, heads held high, optics bright, posture confidant and commanding the attention of all those who gazed upon them.

And they bowed, straightened, and spoke in unison.

“We will serve you. We will guide you. We will fight for you and with you. By Primus’ hand, we vow to never forsake you.”

The moment the last syllable exited their vocoders, the cheers were roaring from every mouth, arms waving frantically from some while others knelt and hit the ground with their fists in applause and honor. Optimus and Megatron turned and walked the final five stairs up to the old Prime and Lord Protector, who stepped back for them to stand tall as the new leaders of Cybertron.

.o.

“I don’t _believe_ you!” Prowl snarled at Sentinel the moment everyone was in private again, gesturing wildly, which was most unlike him. “Did you _have_ to wait until _today_ to announce that you had _privately renounced our Maker_?! What the _frag_ did you think you were doing?!”

Sentinel snarled in return. “Don’t talk back to me, you Pit-slagged infant!”

“Oh, I haven’t even _started_ ,” Prowl snarled, his voice sounding like water hitting a hot iron, his hand poking into the center of Sentinel’s chest. The manners that he was exhibiting were enough to cause Sentinel to feel like he was staring at the ghost of Detrious. “And you slagging well _know_ it! You have had several vorns to announce that you and Primus weren’t on talking terms anymore, but you waited until _now_?! Have you lost your fragging logic processor?! Oh, wait. Forgive me. You lost it in that _war_ that you brought Detrious back from the dead to help serve you!”

“That wasn’t completely my fault!”

“You _instigated_ it!”

Optimus looked to Megatron for clarification, but got a wave of sadness-resignation-patience in return. Ratchet’s voice echoed from behind them.

“Sparklings, are you _through_?”

Prowl hissed air out through gritted denta before turning away and walking back to where Jazz was sitting.

“I thought so. Sentinel, I have to agree with Prowl. You couldn’t have picked a _worse_ timing for this announcement.” The Senator paused, then rested his hands upon his hips. “On the other hand, you couldn’t have picked a _better_ timing for it, too. A Miracle in the first moments of their tenure? Primus Himself must have had a field day with what just happened. Now. I don’t know about any of you, but I’m going to enjoy a cube that Prowl has promised me.” Turning away to sit at the table Prowl and Jazz, he left the former Prime slack-jawed behind him.

Elita sighed. “Looks like this is gonna be an interesting life, don’t you agree?”

Smiling just as indulgently as ever at his Sparkmate, Optimus leaned down and pressed his forehead to hers, curling her close to his side as he straightened and held his other hand out to his brother. “I believe so. But I’m also looking to enjoy a relaxing cube of High Grade.”

Gripping the hand in his silver one, Megatron nodded and grinned brightly. “I as well. I should make you try a Kaon brew.”

“I haven’t even have Praxian or Polyhexi.”

“Hm. That shall have to be fixed, now shouldn’t it?” He grinned broadly.

The Prime sighed in resignation. “Elita, love, would you help me convince this mech to give me an easy time learning how much high-grade this frame can take?”

“Heh, nope,” she replied, her hand resting on his hip. “I’m gonna help him get you _wasted_.”

The look of pained betrayal on his face brought everyone to a chuckle, or at least a grin in Prowl’s case. He shook his head and curled his arms around his mate, pressing optics against one black shoulder. At least tonight he could escape from the world a little, relax, and enjoy a few cubes of what he saw to be well-earned high grade. Hopefully, his hangover wouldn’t be too terrible on the morrow, but considering Jazz’s ability to get _everyone_ drunk before he was, he supposed it would be too much to hope for.

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Shortish chapter, wrote it in the airport while waiting for the plane in LAX. Was there for a very long day. I’m now back at home in Boston, enjoying a couple days of peace before I start digging back into everyday life._


	22. Interlude: Fireside 1

Sam was watching their faces as the Autobot related the early days of their acquaintances. From the various pauses, the boy had a feeling that there was much that they weren’t telling the humans yet, which he figured had some reason behind it, even if it made him insatiably curious about what they had been hiding. There was a general ribbing going on back and forth while they spoke, and from the glares that Prowl or Ratchet would occasionally pin on a mech, he knew that there were other things not being said aloud to human hearing. As two-AM approached, the mechs fell silent. He looked to Lennox, who held a look of frowned concentration on his face. Evidently, this was really changing how he was looking at his enemies _and_ his allies.

“So . . . you guys really have known Megatron for a long time,” the boy whispered, looking up at his freshly-repaired Guardian. They were going to be at the ranch until midday tomorrow, and he wished that he had more time to really learn more about who they had been. It was really interesting to see their culture through their eyes.

Bumblebee nodded, then spoke, glad for a new vocoder. His voice, the cultured, vaguely-British tones, was a thankful sound to his human ears. “I’ve known him all my life . . . and when I came into their lives, they were settled in their functions and new designations. Elita and Nightbird doted over me, and Optimus and Megatron primarily taught me.”

“Nightbird?” Sam asked, having not heard that name before.

Prowl was the one who replied. “She became Megatron’s mate, though not Sparkbonded to him. Neither trusted the other to be so close to their Spark, which ultimately became their downfall. Nobody knows if she’s still functional or not, or even if she would have able to still rein Megatron in from his insanity were he still alive.”

“There are theories that she and Megatron were like Jazz and Prowl here, knowing that they were to Bond, but never doing so. But nobody knew for certain, and certainly neither gave any inclination if that was how they felt,” Ratchet expounded, looking up as a trio of mechs walked to their circle. Space was made for them, and the Elder Twins and Bluestreak settled down, Iris blinking at her new company sleepily before settling into recharge again in Sideswipe’s arm.

Sunstreaker held a faintly glowing cube up to the firelight, catching the attention of all present. Optimus stared in open-mouthed wonder at the energon. “Well, Primus bless! You got the slaggin’ still ready.”

Grinning, the golden twin murmured, “It’s a new brew, a new flavor that we’ve never tried before, and I fear that it may become a delicacy once Cybertron is revitalized.” Lowering it and glaring around at the suddenly downtrodden expressions around him, he snarled, “You bastards don’t think that we can bring Cybertron back? Optimus, you took _oaths_ to see to bringing our world to greater heights!”

“So did Megatron,” the leader replied, his voice low with pain, rumbling through his frame and the frames around him.

“Yeah, but you aren’t responsible for _his_ failure to hold to his oaths,” Ratchet barked, pointing imperiously towards his leader. “Now quit the pity-party, else I’ll give you something to feel sorry about!”

The words and attitude caused Prime’s mouth to twitch upwards in a small smile. “Mm. Knowing you, I have a feeling that it would be quite a show for all those involved.”

“Slaggin’ right!”

“What’s the Matrix?” Lennox asked suddenly, looking up at the crystalline optics aimed down at him with a suddenness that he still wasn’t used to. “You mentioned it in passing, saying something about how it was necessary for Optimus to be who he was.”

There was silence, and nobody moved, despite Lennox knowing full well that they were discussing what they could and couldn’t tell him. After a moment, the leader looked to Sam. “What we discuss, you agreed never to speak of. We are treating you as the adult and warrior you proved yourself to be in Mission City.”

Swallowing, the boy nodded nervously.

“Please remember your oaths.” Looking up, the stately leader spoke again. “Lennox, the Matrix is an artifact from the dawn of the Transformer race. It signifies ultimate leadership on an authority greater than the mortal realm and accountability to the Creator.”

“You swear by him a lot. Ratchet especially.”

Chuckles echoed around the fire, where Ratchet huffed irritably and muttered, “Invoking Primus’ name is always a prayer and a complaint all in one.”

“Suuure,” Sideswipe teased.

“Kid, I can end you.”

“If you can catch me.”

“Put the Sparkling down; let’s see how far you get!”

“Children,” Ironhide warned with a chuckle. “Let’s not scare the humans.”

“This is coming from the guy who shoved his cannons in my face the moment we met,” Sam cut in, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning back against his Guardian.

Another round of snickers rippled around the crowd. The Autobots looked at their humans with semi-expectant looks. “You need sleep,” Ratchet finally said aloud in a grouchy tone.

“Can . . . can I stay up? I can sleep on the way back to my home,” Sam asked before anyone moved. “I don’t get much time with you guys, and I . . . I missed out on a lot of the ‘getting to know you’ stuff that you have with the NEST guys.” He looked from one alien face to the next, hoping that he would be able to hear more about Cybertron. The hope wasn’t even thinly disguised.

“Our past isn’t always as easy as we’ve made it sound,” Prowl said into the silence, his regal voice measured and paced out perfectly. “And there is a lot you may learn that you could find upsetting.”

“What, that Megatron wasn’t always a monster? Or that you deal with a lot of the same hurts that humans do? Dysfunctional families, heartbreak, betrayal?”

“Perhaps you don’t understand how deep those words may rankle us,” Sunstreaker growled suddenly, half-rising, only to have his twin grab his golden arm.

“How is the boy supposed to know if we don’t explain it to him?” the Prime’s voice said in a gentle murmur, his voice overriding Sunstreaker’s anger, turning it into a sullen glare and nothing more. He knew how to control his warriors if there was reason to. “Sam, if you wish to remain with us, I would greatly enjoy telling you more about Cybertron. However, there is a duty you will have to perform while we continue telling these stories.”

Lennox and Epps stood with smiles, ruffling the short hair of the teen as they moved away to get some sleep. Grinning and trying to straighten the unruly curls with his hand, Sam asked, “What will I have to do?”

“Tend to the fire, boy; don’t let yourself catch cold.”

To add humor to the directive, Bumblebee pulled a blanket from subspace, shook the chill from it, holding it up over the flames to capture warmth, then dropped it onto his charge with a chuckle. “Here. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

“Thanks, Bee. Really.” But the boy wrapped the blanket around himself and shifted his back against the Guardian trustingly, watching as the mechs traded looks with one another, knowing that they were deciding upon a point where their story was to resume. He was glad for the thermos of coffee that Dana had packed up for him for the impromptu gathering.

He was shocked when it was Jazz who picked the thread of their past up again, his deep voice weaving lyrically through the words . . .

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** I’m not sure if the FFnet notification system is going, but for all my new readers, thank you so much for your watches and reviews! They really make my day! Thank you a million times over!_

_No song for this chapter, since it’s just an interlude while I begin writing the next pieces of the puzzle of who I feel our leading characters are._


	23. Epoch Arc 1: Return to Innocence

_**Author’s Note:** I may be shot for what I’m about to introduce into this story, but . . . don’t say that some of you didn’t see this coming with a hint I dropped some ten chapters back._

.o.

The Sparkling was a perfect fit in his arms. Jazz stared down at the sleeping infant, his Spark crying out with waves of warmth and love towards the delicate frame in his arms. Prowl had been in an accident two days before, thankfully not taking too much damage, but his processors had been jostled around and he was still recharging more than his normal scarce cycles.

Jazz pressed his forehead to the little black forehead of their Sparkling, feeling the child shift and click sleepily, moving into a deeper recharge stage. “Love ya, littla mech. Love ya so much . . .”

Setting the settled little one back in the pannier to the main berth that he and Jazz shared in their finally-private apartment, the small black and silver mech hopped back into bed. Leaning over his lover, smiling at the exhausted set of his faceplates, Jazz nuzzled the white face and helm gently before settling back in the hollow he had left behind when the Sparkling had woken up out of a deep recharge with a night horror.

Shutting optics off, the entertainer-turned-enforcer remembered the vorn that lead up to this point . . .

.o.

“Ratchet, can I talk with you?”

Looking up from the datapad containing a new set of laws that Optimus and Megatron wished to push through Senate to grant greater assistance towards mechs who were either battling poverty, substance addictions, or a combination of the two. Being from Iacon’s Docks and Kaon’s Underbelly made the duo popular with the “common mech,” giving them a broader range of individuals who could identify with them. They were working on making sure that the rich didn’t get richer, and that the poor didn’t become poverty-stricken.

Not to mention that just two vorns before, they had fought bitterly as brothers in order to push through more funding for medical research. With the onset of that funding, Ratchet was beginning to wonder if he should return to his first love, healing the sick and fixing the broken.

“Prowl. Of course.” Setting the datapad aside, he stood and welcomed his grown Youngling with spread hands, feeling the gentle-yet-deadly hands of the Senior Enforcer touch his in greeting before they walked to the private sitting room of Ratchet’s Senatorial office. He hated the damn thing, which was another reason why he wanted to return to being a medic and have a general practice again.

Once they were settled upon the couch, Prowl having pulled one leg under him in a pose that Ratchet knew well. He wasn’t sure of something, and had his leg propped under him for that moment of “I’m ready to spring up and run off” that life hadn’t culled out of his behaviors. “I have a request.”

“What do you need?” Ratchet asked, leaning forward. Out of all of his grown children, Prowl stayed the closest to his Spark. Of course, he communicated at least once a deca-orn with his other former-charges, but Prowl often just showed up when he wasn’t on-duty.

Looking inordinately unsettled, Prowl broke visual contact and looked at his hands, not quite sure what to do with them or with himself. Doorwings were hitched into a high, tense position, and he found that he had no words. All his rehearsed phrases disappeared.

One yellow hand rested upon his fingers, stilling them from their fidgeting. “Prowl, are you hurt somewhere?”

The white helm shook in a negative.

“Are you sure? If you are, you don’t have to be embarrassed about it; getting cords tangled and wrenched while interfacing is—”

“Smelter damn, Ratchet!” the mech hissed in shock. “Jazz and I haven’t wrenched cords since we first started interfacing _decavorns_ ago!”

Chuckling, the old medic grinned at the indignant response, gaining him a dark glare in response.

Sighing, Prowl looked down at his fingers, then back up at the Senator. “Jazz and I have been talking about this since just before Optimus and Megatron were inaugurated, we’ve been looking at finances, at how secure our jobs are, how settled we feel with our lives, everything. We . . . we want to raise a Sparkling.”

Staring at Prowl, the smile that stretched over Ratchet’s faceplates was a particularly gentle one. “What can I do to help?”

“We wish to ask you and Wheeljack to design and build the Sparkling and Younging frames.”

Gathering Prowl into his arms, feeling the mech lean into the embrace, Ratchet whispered, “I would be honored. Beyond honored. Yes. We’ll start on the designs immediately, if you and Jazz wish to meet with us over some Energon tonight. And don’t you even _think_ of offering monetary compensation for this; consider this to be our gifts to you both in celebration.”

“But—”

“No, Prowl.” Ratchet patted the white helm, smiling and playfully tweaking the red chevron identifying him as both Praxian and an Enforcer. “Please let us do this for you.”

“Neither of you let me pay for my wings, either,” he grouched, huffing air out through his vents in irritation.

“Nope. Because it was a learning curve for us as well. Come see us after you and Jazz get off of your shifts tonight. I have a meeting to get to in a few breems, and I want to make sure that I remember everything that Mirage wants to dispute with the Prime and Lord Protector.”

“I don’t envy you your meetings.”

“And I don’t envy you your paperwork stacks.”

“Ugh. Primus.” Standing, he smiled once more before his expressionless, aloof mask slid into place and he strode out of the office, nodding to the Guards stationed outside out of habit. They all served the same authority, and they were brothers-in-arms who trained with each other on a regular basis.

Just as he was about to cross the Grand Atrium, he flicked his wings, frowned, turned, and glared. “What.”

Guiltily, the Prime, who was clearly hiding from his aides, gestured for Prowl to come closer. Sighing, the Praxian walked over to the shadowed passage that only a select few knew about. “Primus above, _what now_?”

“The Priests still aren’t taking to me, even though I’m trying everything.”

“Yes. And?”

“They’ve come to me saying that it’s time I took up my role as the one who . . . you know . . . the whole Sparkling ceremony.”

“They haven’t let you in on that yet?!” Prowl hissed, moving into the dark corridor and closing the door behind him, turning headlights in time with Optimus to fill the darkness with light. “I thought you said that you were close to getting to being taught that ceremony seven deca-vorns ago!”

“Prowl, you _know_ the abuse they endured under my mentor. While I don’t like him, and while I find him to try my patience on a very deep level, it’s hard not to see just how far his influence has spread, even _past_ his tenure as active Prime.” Running a hand over his face, pressing upon his faceplates in order to reduce his irritation by soothing a few of the easy-to-reach sensors. He felt Elita’s ever-soothing Spark reassure his before returning to her current excursion into the Iacon’s shopping district with Chromia and Firestar.

The white and black mech bowed his head, tallying up how much time he had before his shift, which was thankfully a short one. Today was a day of filing reports and processing other useless paperwork issues. Three joors of work, and that was in five joors. Then meeting with Ratchet and Wheeljack. He had time to spare. Looking up sharply, his blue optics meeting Optimus’, he said in clear tones, “We’ll at least need Ironhide, otherwise you’re not going to be allowed to exit this building to see the public. Damn idiots thinking that you’re still unable to defend yourself haven’t taken the time to see you throwing punches recently.”

Growling, showing real irritation, the Prime muttered, “I miss the days where I didn’t have to worry about bodyguards.”

“Well, tough slag anyway. You’re important, and we protect what is important!” Prowl grouched right back at him before calling Ironhide up and telling them where they’d meet. “We need to talk to the Priests, or at least have someone talk with the Priests. I have three joors of paperwork to do sometime in the next eight joors, and I have a meeting with Ratchet tonight.”

Opening the door and slipping out, he raised his head and looked like he belonged in the Grand Atrium. Hesitantly following him, Optimus wished that he had the smaller mech’s grace and bearing. _He_ looked like he belonged in the Atrium, and Prime, while he had the physical stature, still was having trouble with the overall mindset of “belonging” in such a high-scale place. He was a _dockworker_ , masquerading around as some sort of _aristocrat_.

_:Get your aft out here, or I will make a scene and force you out.:_

Damn, Prowl could be pushy, but in the back of his Spark, the place where the Matrix met his soul, he felt approval of the past Primes in his choosing to maintain a friendship with the Enforcer. They were good for each other, he could almost feel the Primes say. Straightening his back, pulling his shoulders into the position of confidence that he clearly didn’t feel, he walked in pace with Prowl, granting him that place of being “in step” with the Prime, a show to all those who paused to see Optimus crossing the Grand Atrium without the customary aides trailing behind him, or Ironhide standing behind and to the right in the position of Protector.

Walking in step with a mech meant that you were of one mind, in each other’s confidence, and friends. It was stating an equality of minds, if not status. Status was denoted when mechs sat down to energon, when they sat at meetings, where they were placed during concerts and presentations of art. So when Ironhide met up with them, he fell behind and to one side of Optimus. Reaching around the mech to tap Prowl’s arm in acknowledgement, he grinned and asked, “So, are we taking the fight to them?”

“I suppose we may have to,” Optimus murmured in return, hardly feeling as confident as his words portrayed. With a sigh, he turned towards the local Temple of Primus. _:However, the question seems to be “Will there be anyone who will open his mind to us?” As it stands, they are holding themselves as if they are separate splinter group, but are still wanting my support. I just do not know how to encourage them to trust me after Sentinel’s fiasco.:_

Ironhide shrugged. He was only a Guard, if a rather high-ranking and proficient one who had the right personality to work with the Prime. Prowl began to let his mind start to look at this problem again, tactics and battle computer working on the problem, seeing if there were any patterns that could be seen, and how best to negate those patterns. Optimus needed the support of all those who didn’t support Sentinel.

_:You look like you’re processing pretty hot, Prowl,:_ Optimus murmured as they faced the Temple of Primus in Iacon, waiting for a moment to gather themselves. It wasn’t that far of a walk to this local branch of the highest-ranking Priests of Primus, since traditionally, they worked closely with the Prime.

Prowl waited a moment longer, then nodded. _:And I have a solution. Have you ever heard the turn of phrase, and the particular words elude me at the moment, that indicated that an embittered Spark could be turned because of selfless acts of kindness?:_

_:Mm. It seems familiar.:_

_:That is my suggested course of action. Be yourself. You’re a kind, caring mech, and these are mechs who supposedly can feel the nature of a Spark.:_

Nodding, Optimus set his shoulders again, then strode forward, walking up the steps to the Temple without hesitation, walking into the building with natural humility. A neophyte paused in his steps, blinking once before bowing and walking closer. He was a Youngling, and with each step, his smile grew brighter and broader. Optimus went down upon one knee to smile in return, feeling the Matrix reacting to the sweetness of this Youngling’s Spark. “Hello.”

“Hello, Optimus Prime. How may I assist you?”

Just as the leader was opening his mouth, a reprimanding hiss burst forth from a teal mech who hurried his way over to them, not _quite_ running, but making quick steps. Optimus quirked up an optic ridge, but didn’t get up. He returned his attention to the Youngling. “Maybe you can join us, and walk with us as I make sure that the Temple has been getting enough funding for maintenance.”

“Really?”

“Optimus Prime,” the Senior Priest said quickly, his deep voice booming, used to calling over crowds for attention. “It is an . . . honor.”

“The honor and pleasure is mine, Senior Priest Cymbeln.” Standing, resting his hand upon the small helm of the child, his smile didn’t fade. “And I am here to ensure that there is enough funds to keep this historic building kept in pristine condition.”

“You think that the _building_ is the most resource-thirsty part of our faith?!”

Making calming motions almost-absently with the hand that wasn’t on the Youngling, who was just _drinking_ in the attention, Prime replied, “Yes, yes, I know. The Spark is the most valued resource.” He tapped his chestplates with a finger with an enigmatic smile. “I, moreso than most, understand that point. At the same time, why raze a building to the ground and rebuild it, when it is more economically-friendly to hire construction workers specializing in renovation?”

“You . . . what?”

“This is a historical building; I read that it had been built not long after the last of the Thirteen laid their Spark to rest with Primus.” His optics smiled upon the building, and he turned them down to the awestruck Youngling beside him, pulling him to his hip in a gentle half-embrace. “The Thirteen didn’t want buildings in their honor. And you won’t find any buildings named for them. But you will find glyphs, cues, and certain parts of our architecture that reflect the personalities of each individual.”

“Wow.”

“Mm.” Looking up at the Priest, Optimus continued. “I don’t want to see our world so ravaged by time that we have no choice but to rebuild. Let’s try to preserve what we have. There are plenty of other locations to rebuild, and I fear that there are some Temples where it _will_ be necessary to start from scratch, but this? Why rebuild this?” He looked up at the vaulted ceiling, built to accommodate even the largest mechs.

“Why do you care?” the Priest asked warily.

“Because when I made my vows to uplift Cybertron, I meant them. When I made my oath to see to every Spark under my guidance, to every Spark that was _to be_ under my guidance, I want to give _them_ the futures they wish to live.” He smiled at the Youngling again. “And for those who feel the call to Primus, I find their unique position to be especially close to my Spark.”

The Senior Priest stared at Optimus, then looked around their small group again. “Why isn’t Sentinel with you?”

Optimus let a bit of a smirk onto his face and into his voice. “He doesn’t know that I’ve come to meet with you.”

“But he is your mentor. Shouldn’t you have another several vorns of—”

“His mentorship _cannot_ cover my relationship to Primus, as he has renounced our Creator. From communicating with the Primes—”

“ _That_ isn’t something you should be saying aloud!” the Priest said in a hiss, looking scandalized.

Cocking an optic ridge, Prime replied in a skeptical retort, “And you haven’t heard the wordless whisper of the AllSpark, hm? And you haven’t gushed about how it felt to channel its energy from Cube to Sparkling frame? I carry _memories_ of you from another Prime, old mech. I’ve heard your voice before.”

Clamping his mouth shut, the Priest looked as if he wanted to either argue or smile, and the smile won out. Releasing a ventful of air, Cymbeln shook his head and muttered, “Primus, save me from mechs who remind me of myself. All right, Prime. You’ve made your point; you are not of one mind with Sentinel in the matters of Primus.”

“It . . . would be foolish to cut myself off of a Creator who has a personal interest in our affairs.”

“Wise mech.” Looking, _really_ looking at the mechs who stood on either side of the Prime, the old Priest nodded to Ironhide, seeming to know the mech, but his gaze settled upon Prowl. “You upgraded, got sensory wings, since I last saw you.”

“Sadly, you are mistaken. I have always had sensory wings.” Prowl continued to hold himself aloof from the strangers around him. “They took damage shortly before the ceremony, and I had them removed and upgraded.”

“Ah, my apologies. Then you are a true Praxian.”

“Of course.”

Cymbeln seemed to find this amusing, and he chuckled. “You are just like your Sparked-Caretaker, Prowl. I knew ol’ Detrious, both _before_ and _after_.” Nobody needed to elaborate upon what separated the two states of being. “You remind me of him, but you have more compassion than that ol’ mech had. It’s good to see.”

A frown drifted over Prowl’s face, and he asked, “How . . . ?”

“The Prime considers you a friend, and those of us who were friends of your late Caretaker, as well as that _brat_ , Ratchet, have always made sure to keep an optic on you from afar. We didn’t want to have to mourn the loss of _your_ Spark as well.” Bowing his head to the group, Cymbeln looked directly at the Prime. “Come to us tomorrow, and we will discuss what you will need to know to fully drape the mantle of Prime around your helm and shoulders. Kiddo, come. You’ve been cleaning all morning; energon break.”

And just like that, the old mech and his apprentice were walking away. Prowl blinked after the partially-stooped back, then nodded. “Well. That went over easier than I had anticipated.” He turned on his Prime with a glare and a snarl over encrypted comms. _:You didn’t tell me that you had never been here alone!:_

_:I didn’t think that it would have mattered,:_ Prime replied sheepishly.

_:Smelter’s interfacing panels, Prime! From here on out, if you want my help on anything needing a tactical approach, do **not** withhold any detail, no matter **how** fragging trivial you feel it to be!: _Flicking doorwings dismissively, he added out loud in his normal-calm voice just to glitch the mech out, “See to it that you are delivering Sparklings before Ratchet and Wheeljack complete their next Sparkling frame.”

“They aren’t making another Sparkling frame! The last one they made for that Towers Noble’s Youngling, and that was only because they were blackmailed!” Prime said with a shocked mutter. “I would have heard about them working on another frame so soon!”

“Of course you wouldn’t have heard of it. They were commissioned only this morning. Right before you detained me, in fact.” And then the handsome face melted into a rare smile, which gave Optimus the answer he needed. “So get the procedure right, Prime! I expect it to go without a mishap.”

Throwing his head back and laughing, Optimus replied, “For you, my friend, I will do everything possible to bring this dream of yours to fruition! Off to work with you! I shall see you again soon!”

Bowing, Prowl turned and walked out of the Temple and into the artificial daylight, not pausing as he walked down the streets, avoiding traffic gracefully, not _entirely_ ignoring that mechs and a few femmes were watching how he moved. He was the type of Enforcer that didn’t care who saw them, it seemed. He was actually carefully cultivating that persona of an aloof, emotionless mech. He almost had it down to the science that their Communications Enforcer carefully kept.

But you could _always_ tell his mood if he had more than three of his symbiotes out of their docks.

Walking into the building, Prowl looked in on the bored Enforcer. “Soundwave.”

“Greetings, sir.”

“When was your last break?”

“Two joors ago.” Wincing, he opened the compartment in his chest that held the symbiotes, and one ejected, transforming mid-air and catching onto his hand. He closed the compartment and glared at the mechling. “Rumble.”

“What?! Frenzy started it!”

For almost a breem, the two argued silently while Prowl waited patiently. It wasn’t hard to see why Soundwave was a valuable member to the Iacon Enforcers. Prowl looked down and to his right to see a rather toothy feline blinking his single optic at him. Prowl knew better than to try to pet Ravage, as did anyone on the force who survived being a newbie.

Ravage _bit_. Not when he was being petted, oh no, never that. He bit ankles. During meetings. And _nobody_ could catch him coming or leaving. Prowl ignored the cat simply because there were those whom he felt truly deserved getting their ankles harassed.

“Mah mech!”

Turning and seeing Jazz leaning around the door from Prowl’s office, the higher-ranked Enforcer held a hand up in the “wait” gesture, then turned to see that Soundwave had settled Rumble upon his desk. Ravage had moved to sit upon Soundwave’s leg. Perhaps “sprawl across” would have been a better term for how Ravage was settled. The only one whom the feline permitted to pet him was his master, who was sitting as the backup dispatcher. “Has your paperwork for Special Ops gone through yet?”

“Negative. My opinion: they are unsure of how my symbiotes will factor into this.” Shrugging, the large mech added, “They have a meeting scheduled with me to see what my strategies are in the employment of these fragged troublemakers.”

“Hm. Well, if Ravage, Lazerbeak and Buzzsaw are any indication of how silent they can be when they put their minds to it, I will vouch for your advancement if they come to me for my opinion. I’ve seen them when nobody else has.”

“Then they aren’t doing their job well enough,” Soundwave growled, but it was merely his tone of voice, not a growl depicting irritation, anger, or any negative emotion. “Until they are able to sneak past you, then they haven’t honed their skills enough. A query: if they are visible to your sensors, will you point them out?”

“You know that my doorwings are more sensitive than almost every other set fabricated.”

“Precisely my point.”

“Very well, but on one condition.”

Soundwave tilted his head to one side curiously.

“If I catch them, they are not allowed to be angry with me. This is a training exercise, and please have them understand that this is not singling them out to torment them on a skill that is still being honed.”

Soundwave nodded. “They heard; they agree not to be angry with you, so long as there is no overt demonstration of their failure.”

“Agreed. I will be discreet.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Enforcer Prowl. They will also tender their gratitude at various times.”

Ravage, who never spoke, looked up at Prowl, dipped his head slowly and turned his optic off for longer than normal. Looking back up at the black-and-white, the cat seemed to grin before resuming his “I’m waiting for an assignment” lounge. Soundwave, predictably, poked Rumble, who huffily said, “Thanks for helpin’ us train, Enforcer Prowl.”

“It is my pleasure, Rumble.”

With that, they turned away from each other. Prowl moved to his office and stared in at the mech sprawled in the spare chair, feet upon the desk, flipping through the datapads on his lap in an attempt to find a file. “What have I said about your feet on my desk, Jazz?” Prowl rested his hands on his hips, staring down his nasal ridge at the small mech who stopped short at his voice and looked up.

“Can ya start makin’ some _noise_ when ya walk up on me?”

Prowl gave him a _look_. “You _always_ hear me.”

“I didn’t today.”

“You maxed your audios out. Were you sound-testing at the club?” Prowl demanded.

“Yeah, and what about it?”

“You _want_ to have your audios replaced because of short-outs?! They’re _expensive_!”

“So? Ain’ my fault that Blaster likes to max his system out!”

“I got you _dampeners_ so that you didn’t _have_ this problem after sound-checks and performing!”

“They muffle the sounds!”

“They’re _supposed_ to muffle the sounds, Jazz! Primus!”

“If you two are done with your lover’s spat, can you get all your reports and filing done?” the chief said as he looked in on the mates, a wry smile upon his face.

Jazz grinned to their Boss; Prowl straightened his shoulders, nodded, and sat behind his desk, blinking at the small cube of high grade sitting hidden behind the “to file” stack. The chief closed the door, leaving them alone in the room together. Holding the high grade up with a questioning look, Prowl got a grin form Jazz, which accompanied a message. _:New distiller in Iacon set up a new still, and Blaster’s friends with him. It’s a sharper, spicier taste, but also has a nice rounded buzz over the glossa. It’s beautiful. He’s already been contacted by Elita-One to have it be marketed as the only high grade to be used for celebrations in their citadel for the next vorn.:_

_:Shrewd decision. Once it’s know where they get their high grade, everyone will be demanding him for it. They really have been succeeding at their aim for people to start supporting local, small businesses instead of trying to get the luxuriant and expensive out-of-system wares.:_ Prowl cracked the cube open for a taste, then smiled and rolled it over his glossa a few times in appreciation. Nodding, he resealed the cube, subspaced it, and added, _:That’s the brew I think we should go with for our celebrations as well. Has a particular kick to it that I like.:_

Snickering, the smaller mech, who now had the red detailing of a full Enforcer upon his shoulders, leaned back and put his feet back up on Prowl’s desk. He was the only mech who was able to get away with this sort of disregard. “So. You’re late getting here.”

“Prime needed a bit of help with something.”

“Uh-huh.”

_:After I spoke with Ratchet.:_

Jazz fell out of his chair in shock with his attempt to stand up out of the relaxed lounging. Straightening, he rested his palms on the desk and leaned over the piles of datapads. _:What?! I thought that you said you weren’t going to bother him and ’Jackers about this!:_

_:I wanted it to be a surprise for you. I knew that Ratchet would want to be part of this process.:_

_:Primus! He was mad enough to renounce making frames with Wheeljack after the fiasco with the Nobles a half-vorn ago!:_

_:Which is why I went to him.:_ Prowl smiled, stroked one of Jazz’s finely-sculpted cheeks with a fingertip, then went back to filing, which caused his mate to follow suit. _:I knew that no matter what, he wouldn’t refuse helping us with a Sparkling and Youngling frame. And I knew that we would make it easier upon both him and ’Jack than the Nobles did, blasted idiots. I knew that they would inevitably end up enjoying the process again, and if it was their last frames to create, it would leave them with a pleasant ending to this chapter of their careers.:_

_:This is why I love you so much, Prowl. You really take the well-being and emotions of everyone around you into account.:_ Jazz grinned up at his mate, and they went back to their work with renewed vigor.

The Chief didn’t even bat an optic when they finished a joor early and left for the day. He knew that they were closely tied with the leadership of Cybertron, but it always boggled him how they eschewed the elevated positions that were often offered to them by senators and the Prime and Lord Protector themselves. He had been at meetings with Lord Megatron and other Enforcer Chiefs, and Prowl would often walk in and sit at the back of the room.

It was in one of those meetings that it was revealed just _why_ Prowl had the privilege of sitting in on any meeting with the Lord Protector that he desired to. Megatron was getting frustrated with trying to figure out which tactics would work out best for handling the criminal element, and an argument broke out between a few Chiefs. As usual, Prowl never spoke unless he was asked for his opinion. Most Chiefs thought this was arrogance, but this was to be the turning point. Roaring for silence, Megatron shocked them all. “Prowl! Get your aft over here and help me on this! Your fraggin’ battle-computer makes mine look like slag.”

“Battle-computer?” one of the Chiefs had asked another quietly. “But . . .”

“I’ve had the most advanced one on the market since I was a Sparkling,” Prowl said into the silence as he walked up to look at the information that had been presented to his leader. “And while it sometimes causes more trouble than it’s worth, causing me to glitch and have a processor crash, it does come in handy with my profession.”

Terabyte had grinned at that, adding, “And he’s one of my best Special-Ops members because of it. He’s brought survival rates of both officers _and_ perpetrators up twenty-one percent in the time that he’s been on my payroll.”

“Life is precious,” Prowl murmured, his voice neutral and even as he let himself fall into a data-crunching mode. “Even the life of a criminal. Megs, this is going to take more time than I have right now. I’ll continue to look at the numbers and strategies, but I have an appointment with Wheeljack which takes precedence over helping you with your aft-load of issues.” He smirked, the expression barely noticeable unless you knew the mech.

“You . . . how the _Pit_ are you on such familiar terms with our Lord Protector?!” one of the Chiefs exploded, surprising many of the others of his rank, but not shocking Prowl or Megatron in the least. “How _dare_ you treat him with such . . . such _impertinence_!”

Megatron sighed, shaking his head and grinning. “Prowl is not just a supporter, a subordinate whose opinion I treasure, but also a friend, who has the unique position to tell me where to shove it, when, and how. He may not be a brother in actuality, but he speaks to me as a tutor.”

“ _He_ tutors _you_?!”

“He was trained completely by my predecessor, and hasn’t lost his edge. I _still_ can’t beat him in a sparring match.”

“And you won’t be able to for a deca-vorn by your current pace of practicing.”

Wincing, Megatron took the rebuke with a nod. “I will start scheduling more time for training.”

“Mm.” Tapping his fist to the Lord Protector’s arm, in his larger, more sturdy frame than the original adult frame he had inhabited upon taking oaths, Prowl left without another word. 

Terabyte had enjoyed watching them ever since. With a smile, he returned to his own paperwork, but sighed at hearing another argument start up down the hall. Primus, he felt like the Caretaker of two dozen Sparklings, sometimes . . .

.o.

It was the perfect combination of Jazz and Prowl’s Sparkling frames, which they had pulled out of storage for their Sparkling. It wasn’t necessarily traditional to combine Sparkling frames into something new, but more and more Caretakers were doing such, saving on resources and the like in the process. The leftover parts from the small frames were carefully returned to storage for being reused in another Sparkling frame, if this time raising a little one went well.

Prowl stroked the inert face of the Sparkling in Jazz’s arms with a shaking finger while they waited with Ratchet, Wheeljack, Blues and Techni for the Prime to summon them. His battle-computer was running at double-speed, and he was worrying about everything that was going on and happening on this auspicious day.

_:Prowl, I **can** shut your battle-computer down,: _Ratchet offered, knowing just what was causing his mechling so much trouble.

_:I’ve been debating that for the last orn, to be honest,:_ Prowl replied ruefully, looking to Ratchet. _:I’m not needed back on the force until our Sparkling is settled. Paid leave.:_

_:Turn around. I know you want to feel all your emotions and not worry about crashing. You’ll feel dizzy for a half-breem, but I’ll be holding onto you.:_

When Prowl did as instructed, Techni murmured, “What’s going on?”

“Just taking care of something that’s been troubling Prowl,” Ratchet replied in the same tone of voice, fingers moving quickly to dislodge armor and instruct Prowl to shift in a certain direction in order to get his finger to the connection he needed. With one quick movement, the battle-computer was removed from the power-network, and Prowl wavered, his frame adjusting to having to reroute power to different sensors. The Senator pulled his hand free, holding Prowl upright and shifting armor back to where it originally rested, then waited until he shook his head as if clearing it. “How’s it feel?”

There wasn’t an answer for a long moment, but Prowl gusted air through his vents. “This is what it’s like without . . . Primus, some days I wish that Detrious hadn’t designed me the way he had.”

“Is . . . your battle computer off?” Jazz asked softly.

“For the next few days, yes.” Prowl, doorwings relaxed and expressive, looked to his mate and leaned closer to him, pressing their foreheads together in a public display of affection that he normally wouldn’t have done otherwise. “I wanted to _feel_ and not panic.”

“Mm. I ain’ complainin’.”

“Prospective Caretakers Jazz and Prowl,” a grounded, yet clearly feminine voice called, carrying over the waiting area with a gentle authority. Elita-One stood at the doorway leading into the inner sanctum of the Temple of Primus in Simfur. “Bring the frame and come forward.”

They walked together to the Prime’s Consort, who smiled at each warmly, reaching up with both arms to lay a hand on either cheek with a gentle tenderness. “I am so proud of you both. Come.”

Turning away from the waiting area, Elita moved with swift strides, used to the long-legged pace of her Bondmate and his brother. She winced and slowed down after only four steps, remembering that Jazz was her height, and therefore, had the same length stride as she did, so she needn’t hurry herself, and Prowl was used to taking a slower pace with his lover. This was supposed to be a moderate pace, but so far, all the others who have come to the Prime for their Sparklings were long of leg, which caused her to take her usual “contemplative pace” and hurry it.

They entered the Outer Sanctum, where Optimus Prime and Lord Megatron were waiting side-by-side, gazes _almost_ professionally pleased, but both were far too excited about this event to school their expressions. Optimus nodded to the couple. “There are customs that we’re supposed to adhere to, but I fear that you will both be bored and irritated with me by the time we complete them. I know you both; I know that you have done extensive research upon what to expect.” He walked closer, Megatron at his side, and rested a hand on either shoulder, smiling broadly, kindly, and he held his hands out for the Sparkling frame. “May I?”

Even though Jazz knew that Optimus would rather take his own leg off at the knee than harm a Sparkling, he fought off new Caretaker programming that had been installed just that morning. He felt Prowl’s hand on his shoulder, and knew that he, alone, couldn’t hand the Sparkling frame to Optimus. Wordlessly, Prowl helped to support the frame, and together, they held it out for the leader.

_~Primus, I’ve never seen such a pair move like that, even Sparkbonded!~_ Elita whispered in her mate’s Spark.

Optimus gingerly took the Sparkling, cradling it in one large hand. _~They’re a special pair, all right. And if I’m reading their Sparks correctly, both fear Bonding, but not for any of the “normal” reasons. Regardless, they are a stable pair, and I doubt that the AllSpark will deny them their child.~_

_~Agreed. Think that they’d gossip with me about it, Dearspark?~_

_~Jazz will. Maybe not Prowl.~_

_~Then I’ll leave him to you.~_

Turning, Optimus walked with his mate towards the large doors to the Inner Sanctum. Prowl and Jazz were ushered to follow him by Megatron, whose usually-sober face was still lifted in a smile.

And there it was.

Jazz whispered a litany of awestruck words in a dozen languages as he gazed up at the Cube, feeling his feet pulling him closer, but not too close. His hand was entangled in Prowl’s, which he could feel trembling. _:Prowler?:_

_:It’s . . . I’ve never **felt** anything like this before. I’ve never had to subdue any feeling like this before. Primus is **here** , Jazz. He **has** to be!:_

_:I . . . I think you’re right.:_

Optimus continued closer to the cube, Elita a half-pace behind him. If he were ever to be incapacitated, it would be up to his mate to perform all his duties while he recovered. But here, she moved in tandem, creating the balance that was mech and femme in pure forms. Optimus smiled down at the little face of the Sparkling frame, stroking one lovingly-sculpted cheek before opening the small chest up to reveal an empty Spark chamber. Looking up at the Cube, he whispered a small prayer in the Language of the Primes, a plea, a query.

He reached up to the nearest corner of the cube, fingers dancing along the edge respectfully.

And when he pulled his hand away, a spark of energy danced between his fingertips.

That rough ball of static reacted in the space between the AllSpark and a Matrix to become a true Spark as it was guided into the chamber that would protect it, nourish it, and give it the means to interact with the world around it.

The chamber closed, sealing the bright silver light from view, and the small frame began to power up. Optimus moved back to his friends, now a family, and gently laid the Sparkling into Prowl’s waiting, impatient arms.

Prowl, aware of his mate’s height, crouched, hands still shaking as he stroked the now-living metal face of their – _their_ – child. Jazz wrapped his arm around his shoulders, knowing that Optimus, Elita, and Megatron were all crowding to get a look at the moment the infant onlined his optics for the first time. They didn’t have to wait long.

Optics onlined, and the Sparkling stared up at Prowl, blinking a few times before looking over at Jazz, who was trying not to laugh or cry all at once. He murmured a soft, “Welcome to life, little Spark.”

Blinking at the deep voice, the Sparkling looked up at the mech who still held him, and squeaked softly.

Chuckling, Prowl whispered, “Welcome to our family.”

A stubborn blink answered him, causing both mechs to chuckle, all arguments of a name forgotten in this moment, as one just seemed rightly appropriate. As Elita melted over the little one while she held onto Optimus’ arm, and as Optimus and Megatron shared a smile before retuning their gazes down to the Sparkling, Jazz and Prowl named their Sparkling, their voices melding together into one.

“Barricade.”

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Looks like the notification update is (tentatively?) working again. I’m wondering what glitched in the servers caused it. Eh, oh well. Here’s another chapter for you, and it’s the beginning of an arc, too! This one won’t be as focused upon Prowl and Jazz, even though this chapter was. There’s a lot more than just their lives that I have to flesh out, starting with questions such as:_

_How did Bumblebee come into everyone’s lives?_

_How did Megatron start his journey from compassionate brother to power-hungry warmonger?_

_How does Prowl end up knowing Smokescreen and Bluestreak?_

_Will Ratchet and Wheeljack Bond?_

_Who was Nightbird?_

_And these will all be answered by the end of this arc. Following this arc is the one I know you’ve all been waiting for: The “War” Arc._

_Yes, it’s an old song, but I decided to go with “Return to Innocence” by Enigma for this chapter’s theme song._


	24. Epoch Arc 2: Lovesong

_**Author’s Note:** There’s reason for the T rating. Jus’ sayin’._

.o.

Optimus had two more breems before he had to go to the Senate meeting, but he didn’t dare interrupt what he was doing now or ignore the femme on his lap who had locked the door behind her when she entered his office. Her hands danced over his frame along sensors that caused the red-and-blue to shudder under her ministrations, and he mirrored her movements, enjoying this stolen moment as they pressed foreheads together. Tentatively, she moved for a kiss, but the large mech was _way_ ahead of her, claiming her mouth with a hunger, sealing her laugh between them.

“If you two are _quite_ through desecrating the office . . .”

Startled apart, Optimus glared over Elita’s shoulder at the mech who had entered, the sound of his fans trying to cool his somewhat-overheated core loud in the sudden silence. He felt Elita’s indignant anger just a click before she spoke.

“ _Nobody_ has the keys to that lock on that slagging door, Sentinel. How the frag are you in _Optimus’_ office?” She slid off of her Bondmate’s lap with lethal grace, and the way she moved sent her mate’s fans kicking into overdrive again before he mentally kicked himself. Standing as well, showing full support of his mate, the Prime let his other half do the talking.

“We have a situation, and nobody else could break in.”

“You could have pinged us, _anyone_ could have pinged us,” she hissed, hands fisting. She, more so than Optimus, had shown greater aptitude for fighting and battle. She was learning from Arcee and Chromia for techniques, and would test herself against Prowl or Jazz, who showed that they continued to spar and train every orn. Trying to catch up with them was like being in a plane driven by propellers while trying to catch a jet.

“I did.”

“I have no records of any communication attempts, and I _always_ keep logs, as due to your instruction, Sentinel,” Optimus said calmly, using his voice to try to dampen the situation, even if Sentinel was lying. “In this season, with all the renewed arguments about where celebrations should take place and _how_ they should happen, I barely have a moment to _myself_ , nevermind trying to pay the attention to my Sparkmate that she deserves. Stolen time is all that we have, and _you_ , sir, understand that more than any other mech on our planet save for Terratron.”

Sentinel glowered at his successor for one long moment before he stated bluntly, “There’s been a problem in the Kaon Glatorial rings.”

As if summoned, Megatron came running into the office, stopping short at seeing an infuriated Elita and a calmly-disgruntled Optimus. How his brother managed to be calm _and_ disgruntled at the same time was always a mystery. He sighed. “I take it that you were interrupted against my advice.” Looking to Sentinel, he said, “You couldn’t have waited _two breems_ for them to emerge? Primus above. Look. There’s trouble in the Rings, and I have to go stop it. Optimus, you’re not a war-faring sort, so _stay here_. I’m going to call on Prowl to fulfill my office duties while I’m taking care of this.”

“He has a two-vorn-old Sparkling, and Jazz is in Polyhex to help train undercover agents. What is Prowl going to do with Barricade if he’s here?” Elita demanded, fists on hips.

“Bring the brat with him, of course. There are plenty of mechs and femmes who wish to dote upon that infamous Sparkling.” He shrugged and shook his head. “I’m taking the militia and half of the Extended Guard. Terratron will be here as well as Prowl to appease anyone who needs to see me while I handle this uprising.” He straightened to his full height. “This is only the beginning, and I do _not_ like the seeds of what I believe may have been sown.”

“Is it rumors of Shockwave again?” Optimus asked, frowning.

“I haven’t been able to verify that.” Megatron sighed, then looked to Sentinel. “And _you_ , if you value keeping your interfacing equipment and aft intact, _don’t_ interrupt those two again. I _can_ and _will_ have you transferred and moved _out_ of your current inhabitance and onto one of the slagging moons if I need to! Smelter’s rod, mech, you really have no regard for anyone’s time but your own!” Storming out, already calling Prowl up on the com, Megatron left the trio as suddenly as he had come.

Elita grinned. “And he was putting it _nicely_ , Sentinel. I do _not_ appreciate my time with my mate interrupted.” She sauntered off, pausing at the door to look back at Optimus with a smile. “I’ll be in the sparring ring, training with Chromia.”

He nodded, just as Ironhide looked around the door with a smirk. Gesticulating rudely to his right-hand mech, Optimus grumbled under his breath and waited for Sentinel to precede him. “I have meetings to attend to, and you have free time on your hands.” He caught sight of the femme he was looking for. “Arcee! Can you show Sentinel the new training rooms and the Guard’s Atrium that we just finished building?”

Looking up from the datapad in her hands, she nodded with a kind smile. “Absolutely! If you’ll follow me, sir? I haven’t seen you around very often; are you enjoying your retirement?” _:Optimus, I hate you.:_

_:You’re still on my slag list from that last prank you pulled. Consider this retribution that you’ll enjoy.:_

_:. . . what are you planning?:_

_:He hasn’t seen how fast my Elita can move in a fight, or how vicious she can be.:_

_:Devious. I like it. I’ll make sure to record this.:_

Walking off in an opposite reaction, Optimus heard Ironhide walking beside him. Once they were safely out of hearing range, the bodyguard said, “You know, he’s really over-stepping his bounds and making sure to be unbearably over-familiar with us. It’s getting out of hand, Optimus.”

“I know, Ironhide, I know.” Gusting air out of his vents, fans having slowed to their normal pace, the Prime muttered, “I just don’t know how to tell him that while I appreciated his mentorship in the early days, he should take a hint from Terra, who has let Megatron make his own decisions, mistakes, and just fade into being a resource for us all.”

Ironhide grunted. “Sentinel likes power. He likes status. He likes making waves. He’s got more of a flair of the dramatic than _Jazz_ does, who at least was _raised_ to know when enough is enough!”

“Actually, I think that has to do with Prowl and Ratchet, more than anything else.”

“What about me?” Ratchet asked as he exited his offices and fell into pace beside his leader and friend. He leered suggestively closer. “And did I hear Elita chewing Sentinel out?”

“Not down here, you didn’t,” Optimus growled.

“I had just picked up today’s Matters of Contention from Arcee. Sentinel walked right by me as if I didn’t exist.”

_:I think the old mech turned grey at the sight of your femme taking on three high-intermediate-level Guards . . . and winning.:_

Snickering, Optimus shared the news, causing the other two mechs to chuckle. Ratchet opened the door for his leader to the Senate floor, saying in aside, _:I look forward to every moment of serving with you, if **this** is how you’re going to run things.:_

_:I will **not** be like my predecessor,: _Optimus vowed firmly, standing taller and walking to his seat, Ironhide moving to stand behind him. The other three seats for the leadership of Cybertron went unoccupied as he called order to the Senate, presiding with clear authority. “I will postpone the airing of today’s first Article of Contention in lieu of an announcement.” He paused, standing to acknowledge Terratron walking into the Senate floor, making his way to the chair of a mentor and resource that was always reserved for him. He nodded, waving Optimus to continue. With a nod in return, the brightly-colored mech did as indicated. “There has been infighting and an uprising in Kaon. Lord Megatron has lead the Militia and half of the Extended Guard to quell it . . .”

.o.

Prowl smiled at the inquiring chitter-squeak of the Sparkling, reaching down to scruff Barricade and pull him onto his lap, stroking the little face and murmuring wordlessly in return, before returning to the paperwork. He kept his hands busy with the Sparkling while he finished up one final datapad, having created a schedule and always being available for Barricade when the Sparkling demanded his attention. He remembered far too many times when Detrious had brought work home, or brought him to work, and proceeded to ignore him and his cries for just wanting his Creator to nothing more than pick him up and stroke his wings soothingly.

Signing his name and dating it, he sent the form on to the next mech, then pulled out a bottle of Sparkling-grade energon and handed it to his mechling with a smile, hearing the chirp of thanks before shoving the soft silicon drip-proof end into his mouth and suckling upon it while resting back against his Caretaker, soothed by the reassuring touches to make sure that all limbs were working in fine order.

“How is my mechling, hm?” Prowl murmured soothingly, smiling and seeing Barricade’s optics quirk upwards in a returning smile.

“Oh, I’m peachy,” a crotchety old voice answered.

Looking up with a chuckle, Prowl retorted, “Terra, shouldn’t you be dozing your old days away under a heat-lamp by some crystal gardens with other elderly mechs and femmes?”

“I’d only cause trouble,” Terratron said with a chuckle, waving his fingers towards the Sparkling, who finished his energon off, stretched to put the bottle on the desk, and slid down Prowl’s leg to rocket across the floor and scale Terratron, coming up to squeak triumphantly into the old mech’s faceplates. The old teacher laughed and tapped his forehead to the little mechling’s own. “Well, hello there!”

“What news from Megatron?” Prowl asked, standing and stretching doorwings that had sat in one position for far too long. “He’s a fast-worker on these things.”

“It’s only _been_ one orn, Prowl. He—”

_:Megatron to Prowl. I have an urgent situation and need you to find Ratchet.:_

_:Where are you and what’s going on?:_ Prowl replied, instantly in Enforcer mindset and looking for a way to handle a situation.

_:I’m en route to the on-call emergency medbay where Optimus’ frame and my new one was constructed, about ten breems out. I have two wounded Younglings, one of them in critical condition, and he’s the best Medic on Cybertron since his mentor passed on to Primus.:_

_:Will you need Optimus there to help soothe their Sparks?:_

_:Mm. Good point. The Matrix calls to Sparklings. Can you come help as well?:_

_:Why me?:_

_:Not sure, but I value your help in any situation.:_

_:Affirmative. I’ll meet you there with Ratchet and Optimus. Prowl out.:_ He gusted air through his vents, then looked up at his Sparkling with an apology in his optics. Thankfully, Barricade was old enough to know that his Creators had schedules to keep, and that technically, Prowl was on work-time. He reached for his Caretaker for a hug, and got the desired result, as well as a soft nuzzle. “Stay with Terratron?”

His mechling replied with a chirped affirmative, reaching back for the larger mech, who took him and asked, “What happened?”

“Injured Younglings. I have to get Prime and Ratchet and go to the other side of Iacon to the Old Citadel.”

“I’ll keep an eye on your boy. Looks like he’s settled enough as it is.” He took the mesh bag of toys and energon that Prowl pulled out of his subspace pocket to keep Barricade occupied with, smiling as the usually-stoic mech paused to smile and chirp a quick “I love you,” to his son, then walked calmly out the door. Once it was closed, however, Terra heard Prowl take off at his fastest running speed towards the New Senate Floor. The old mech turned his gaze to the chattering Sparkling, moving to settle him on the desk, seeing that they were all in the “finished” pile. Typical Prowl.

So the old mech grinned as he pulled the pile apart to begin creating a fort for the excited Sparkling.

.o.

“Hey! Sir! _Sir!_ They’re in the middle of a vote! You can’t just go in!”

“Prime!” Prowl’s unmistakable voice bellowed into the room, soon followed by that very mech who shook off the grasp of the Guard who was trying valiantly to get the him to leave. “Prime, we have a situation!”

“Vote shall be postponed until tomorrow,” Optimus said immediately, his own voice bellowing effortlessly over the confused demands of “What is the meaning of this?” He knew that when Prowl interrupted something, it was _serious_. He didn’t bother going around the long table to get to the entrance where his friend and trainer stood proudly, instead using it as a hand-hold in order to launch himself over it and down the additional ten feet to the actual speaking floor, Ironhide hot on his heels as he stalked closer. “What happened?”

Ratchet was right with him, and instead of talking, Prowl merely indicated that they follow him, moving at a quick pace. Once they were out of the Senate building, Prowl transformed on the run, prompting the other three to follow him. His lights and siren cleared the road before them, Optimus’ prow almost upon his bumper, Ironhide upon his own, and Ratchet pulling up the rear with more sirens and lights.

As they sped through the streets in the unified pack formation, Prowl filled them in on what Megatron had relayed to him, finishing just as they were pulling up into the Old Citadel, Guards moving aside to let them rocket past them and under the old buildings, transforming on the run to continue into the Medbay, where frenzied shouts and orders were competing to be heard.

Ratchet, hearing the sheer _youth_ of one voice, barreled past Prime and into the room with one roar, “ _Enough!_ If there is _one Guard_ in this room by the time I’m done speaking, I will _personally_ take your faces off with my bare hands! Optimus, Prowl, _get in here **now**!_ ”

Ironhide grinned, taking up a post outside of the medical bay doors. It was good to see Ratchet back in his element and not having to censor himself.

Not surprisingly, the room was silent and vacated by the time Ratchet stalked over to the two forms on the berth, red and gold frames tangled up together to try to shield hurts. Prowl’s breath hissed in through his vents, and he winced, walking closer, but waiting until Ratchet finished his scans. “By Primus’ Breath . . . _Spark-twins_. Optimus, I’ll need you to help soothe them. Prowl, your hands are steady, so start doing non-critical repairs once they’re settled. Megs, _where_ did you find these two?”

“They were in the ring, fighting against a mech three times their size, and winning, until they were distracted by my Militia storming into the building.”

“The red one’s Spark chamber is cracked, but the emergency containment field is still running and holding him together. Good. Primus bless the child. Gold has severed tension wires all through his frame, and his hands . . .”

Despite the pain, it was clear that the golden twin was more coherent than his brother. “You’d better fix us up good, or I’ll _frag_ you up!”

“Kid, if you could frag me up, I’d be shocked. No cussing, or I’ll sedate you after washing your glossa off with medical-grade solvent,” Ratchet replied evenly, leaning closer to turn the threat into a promise.

“That sounds familiar,” Prowl said with a small smile, moving to hold his hands out to show the little warrior that he was unarmed. “Ah, of course. You said something just like that to me the day you adopted me.”

“And just _look_ how you turned out.” Ratchet snarked right back at him. Prowl moved to stroke the red twin’s back, getting a slow response. Ratchet began setting up two small energon drips for them. “They’re critically low on Energon and most other fluids.” Turning his attention to the gold twin, he said, “I need you to move.”

“Why?”

“So that I can fix his Spark chamber.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“You’ll kill him! We failed, we lost, so you’ll kill him! That was our last chance!”

“Punk, do I _look_ like a Kaon medic to you?” Ratchet snarled.

Megatron huffed. “No, but your _temper_ sure gives you credence.”

“Silence, or I’ll give you something to worry about that _doesn’t_ have anything to do with these two heathens.” He didn’t break his gaze from the golden twin until the little mech turned blue optics down. “Look, kid, I didn’t come online yesterday, all right? I went to Iacon Medical Center for my training, and because we were in a war at the time, I didn’t get my practice hours in at some backwater general practice. I was on the battlefield for vorns of my life. This isn’t a hard fix, and I’ve done it in worse situations and _without_ containment fields keeping Sparks where they should be. But I need you to _let go_ so that I can get to his chest before any further damage is done.”

It took another breem of glaring, but finally, slowly, the mechling let go of his twin, looking like he expected to be swept off to another table. Prowl, however, moved to put in the energon drip right there, and got a bit digit as a reward. Grunting, gritting his denta, he huffed at the dented plating, then aimed his gaze back at the defiant golden twin. “I will swat you like I swat my Sparkling when he misbehaves. Do not bite me again.”

Something in his tone of voice caused the golden twin to startle and lay still while the energon line was put in and taped down securely. Wheeljack darted into the room, vents heaving as he pulled together the second-smallest welding rig they had, moving up beside Ratchet carefully and beginning to hand him tools while the former CMO began repair of the red twin. Prowl, meanwhile, turned to patching the golden twin up, sealing leaking lines, making sure that tanks weren’t cracked, patching the ones that were before topping off hydraulics and cooling fluids. He felt the golden twin staring at his face angrily the entire time before he said, “Ratchet, I’ve finished the basic patches.”

“Keep the kid company. I’m almost done here. Then you come to work on this one.”

“Affirmative.”

Sighing, Prowl leaned his elbows upon the table, wiping his fingers off with a cleaning rag, watching the defiant Youngling. “You have a name?”

“Yeah.”

“Not gonna tell me, huh?”

“You’re a cop. Why would I trust a cop?”

“Cops aren’t all corrupt,” Prowl murmured, not shocked in the least that the kid had had bad experiences with law enforcement. “We’re trying to weed out dirty Enforcers so that we can keep all the forces clean and on the straight and narrow.”

“What do _you_ do then, huh?”

“Special Operations; I actually lead undercover missions to convict corrupted officials and officers, as well as break up substance-abuse rings.” Among other rings, most of which were disgusting, abhorrent practices, but none that he wanted to speak about out loud.

“Should you be telling me all this?”

“Well, who are you gonna tell?” Prowl replied with a smile, shaking his head. “You’re going to be taken care of by one of the mechs in here until you’re an Adult at the very least. I won’t let you go back to the Arenas to be abused, and I _will_ have investigations started to see who was responsible for putting you in the situation that you’re currently in.”

“That’s _simple_. Wildrider and Breakdown.”

“Your Caretakers?”

“If you wanna call ’em that. They picked us up after we were orphaned.”

“Well, that was easy.”

Megatron was running out of patience for the Youngling’s antics. “Their names are—”

“Megs,” Prowl said with a smile, cutting his leader off. “You keep looming protectively, I’ll make sure that the kids’ minds are intact.”

The golden twin looked to his brother, who was blinking at Ratchet, who had begun repair of his chestplates now, having finished repairing his Spark chamber moments before. Slowly, the red twin met his brother’s gaze, then looked up at Prowl. He nodded once, causing the less-injured twin to speak again. “Siders says that you look like we can trust you. I don’t want to, but he’ll do whatever the frag he wants, and I can’t say anything about it otherwise.”

“Language!” Ratchet barked softly, grouchily.

“Jeez, Primus, fine,” the tenor voice replied. “I’m Sunstreaker, and the doped-up afthead is Sideswipe.”

“That’s it. Wheeljack, get me the solvent!”

“What?! You’re actually going to go _through_ with it?!” Sunstreaker hissed in shock.

Prowl sighed. “Yes, he will. He did with me. Twice. Tastes nasty, and if you swallow it, it makes your tanks gurgle and creates gas when it’s combined with energon for a couple orns. If you apologize, though, I think he may be inclined to postpone the punishment . . .”

“I’m sorry! I’m used to cussing! I’m sorry!” the twin said just as Wheeljack handed the cleaning solvent to Ratchet.

The dry giggles of a half-drugged Youngling paused everyone, and Sideswipe spoke for the first time, grinning up at the Devil Medic. “We’ve heard o’ you . . . ’n’ I think you’re awesomer in person th’n on th’ hist’ry vids. Wash ’is mouf out . . . it’ll be funny to hear ’im cussin’ in m’ Spark. Dare ya.”

Ratchet put the solvent bottle down at their heads, smirking. “I like his sense of humor. Right, then. Sunstreaker, is it? That was your final warning. Next cuss gets your mouth washed out.”

“Yessir.”

“Don’t make me regret giving you this chance.”

“Yessir.”

“I’m allowed to cuss because I’m a grouchy ol’ mech who has reason to cuss. Until you’re a grouchy ol’ mech like me, I don’t want to hear you cussing. No cussing. Got it?”

“Yessir.”

“Sideswipe, you keep your loopy aft right where it is. Prowl’s going to finish patching you up while I work on Little Mister Sunshine’s wiring. I’ll have his hands working perfectly before the orn is out.”

“Nnkay. He’ll like that. He likes to paint.”

“Sideswipe!”

“What? Sunny, ya do.”

“Augh, ya don’t have to tell _them_ that!”

“Mm, but it’s funny to see you get huffy.”

Prowl smiled and traded places with his Caretaker, coming to soothe Sideswipe with a gentle brush of a hand across his brow, smiling for the doped-up troublemaker as he began what were general field repairs that all Enforcers knew. Despite the kid’s Spark chamber having been cracked open, Sideswipe had been in a better state of affairs than his twin. Prowl ran that over in his head. Spark-twins were rare, very rare. But they were uniform in the fact that personalities were split right down the middle.

That was what everyone who was around true Twins had to remember: they weren’t dealing with two whole Sparks standing before them. They were dealing with one Spark in two bodies, and with two very different ways of processing. “You took a bad hit, kid.”

“Didn’t want Sunny t’ get hit again . . .”

“You don’t like being weaker than your brother, do you?”

“’M not weaker! I just . . . don’t fight as well,” the kid muttered, looking up at the ceiling. “I don’ like bein’ defended alla time.”

Sunstreaker made to open his mouth to say something, but Ratchet forestalled it by reaching towards the solvent bottle with a “speak _anything_ and you’ll wish you hadn’t” expression on his face. That gave Prowl the moment he needed to say, “Looks like if you want to do that, then you’re going to need to train.”

“Who would train a pair of arena brats?” Sunstreaker ground out between his denta.

“I would, of course. I’ve taught mechs and femmes with thicker skulls than you two. But I’ll only take you on if you’re determined enough. I’m not an easy teacher. Prime can tell you this.”

That was when the Twins realized just _who_ was overseeing their repairs, and both went dead silent, staring up at the kind-faced red-and-blue leader with dropped jaws. He chuckled, resting his weight upon his elbows, arms crossed on the berth and leaning closer to the pair. “Prowl is one of the most competent teachers I have ever had in my life, and he’s telling the truth. He _can_ teach you, but you _must_ want to be taught. Otherwise, he’ll pitch you out on your skidplates, and _then_ where will you be?”

“Back on the streets?” Sunstreaker guessed.

The kind leader’s face darkened. “You will _never_ have to sleep a night on a street again if I have anything to say about it, and I _do_.”

“We won’t go to an orphanage again! We’ll run away!” Sideswipe cried, trembling, only to feel himself being picked up and cradled close to a Spark that _bled_ warmth and affection. Prowl was careful of the energon drip as he held the seven-foot-tall Youngling to his chest, shielding him from . . . from whatever horrors Sideswipe had in his mind.

“Until we find you a home, you can stay with myself and my mate, so long as you respect us and so long as you play nice with our Sparkling.”

“You’re the most powerful mechs on Cybertron . . . why would you be concerned with _us_?” Sunstreaker whispered, shocked.

“Because if I cannot care for even the smallest of those whom I serve, _how_ can I care for any of the largest?” Optimus murmured with a smile. “We will find you a place to stay, as well as courses for your art, Sunstreaker, and for the field of training you wish to have, Sideswipe. I give you my word not just as Cybertron’s Prime but as the simple mech that I am.”

Twin keens rose softly from the duo. Prowl continued to comfort Sideswipe, and Ratchet put his tools down to gather Sunstreaker up against his own Spark, blanketing the Youngling in gruff affection. Wheeljack smiled at his mate’s back, looking to Optimus, who winked and straightened up. He’d wait until the Sparklings were deep in slumber before they continued discussing what to do with the pair. Nobody wanted to talk about these unique children over their precious heads. It didn’t take long until they were limp with recharge, clicking and trembling from time to time. Prowl sighed, looking up to the door just as Ironhide shoved Jazz inside.

“Terra told me I was needed,” he said, smiling sadly and walking over to look at the battered little frames. “Primus above, lookit the poor little bastards. They need a lotta love, mechs.”

“I offered them a place to stay until we could find them a permanent home,” Prowl murmured, hoping that he hadn’t stepped wrongly on this, hoping that he hadn’t rushed into the decision too quickly.

“Primus, of course. They know we have a Sparkling?”

“Yes, and they know how to behave around said Sparkling.”

“Good.”

They were cut off by Ratchet hissing to Wheeljack irritably, “What the _Pit_ is that supposed to mean?!”

“That you’re not old enough to _not_ want to care for Younglings anymore.”

“Prowl was my last! I vowed you that!”

“Yes, but what if _I_ want to help with these two? Pit, Ratch, what _else_ am I going to spend my credits upon? I have everything I need. I have what I _want_ ,” and he reached up and brushed his hand along Ratchet’s face, causing the former CMO to stutter in frustration and embarrassment at the clear affection in the motion. “Younglings and Sparklings keep the Spark _young_. Now get over it. You’re already attached to them.”

Glaring silently for one more moment, Ratchet finally grunted. “They stay with you until they’re settled again, Prowl, and during that time, I’ll take care of things on my end so that they have a settled couple keeping them in hand.”

Wheeljack blinked, then outright whispered, “Ratch?”

“That was a _yes_ , I’ll move in with you. Your place is bigger anyway and it’s closer to the Arts Academy.”

Ratchet found himself with his arms filled with his mate’s grinning, exuberant-with-the-answer frame, and he unwound enough to smile and embrace Wheeljack in return.

Megatron shook his head at the behaviors, pushing off from the wall and walking towards the door with his long stride. “I have to get back to Kaon to finish wrapping up that riot. I’ll let you soft-Sparks know if there’s anything else I need you to—Smelter’s _Rod_! Fragged Pit-Spawn Devil Medic! What the slag?!”

Ratchet brandished another wrench, the first having flown expertly across the room and clocking the Lord Protectorate on a sensitive ridge of his helm. “You _ever_ call me soft-Sparked again, little mech, and I _will_ make the remainder of your natural life the living _Pit_.”

The silver mech stared in shock for one moment longer before nodding and muttering an apology before retreating from the room. Ratchet put the wrench away with a nod before looking to the mechs around him. “Well then. Shall we?”

.o.

“Jazz! Jazz, Barricade got into my datapads again!” Sideswipe pounded on the door to the master suite imperiously.

Jazz looked to his mate, sighing and drawing himself away from their almost-intimate moment. Slag. _:I thought Caders was still in recharge. My bad.:_

Prowl smiled and stood. _:Wait here. I’ll be right back.:_ He opened the door and crouched to be on Sideswipe’s level. It was a motion he had never seen Detrious use with him, but Ratchet and many others had done so with him since Detrious’ passing. He vowed anew that he wouldn’t ever be as distant as his Sparked-Caretaker. “I thought that you said you kept your door closed.”

“I . . . I forgot to.”

“All right, let’s go and put things back into order.” Standing, he walked with Sideswipe to his shared room with Sunstreaker. The main door was usually open, but they had partitions up to give each Twin some privacy, even though they still recharged curled up around each other. Those walls were waist-high to a medium-sized adult, meaning that they were still a couple feet above the Twin’s height. Jazz, being of just over a minibot-sized stature, would often be found draping his arms over the partition, watching Sunstreaker painting “just so long as he stayed silent.”

That kid was an artist all right, and with one hell of a temper.

Barricade sat in the middle of Sideswipe’s side of the room, the datapads strewn around him, and one currently in his mouth, probably to learn the taste of that particular metal. He froze when he saw Prowl, blinking his optics owlishly and trying to look cute. Two datapads sat in complete ruin at the edge of the mess. Prowl looked to Sideswipe and asked in a very quiet and calm tone, “Those two?”

“One . . . I kinda threw at Sunstreaker last week.”

“And the other?”

“Barricade shoved it off of the shelf.”

“Well, you remember what we did with the last datapad you destroyed?”

“Yeah, I remember,” he said sullenly. “I have to save up and replace it with my allowance.”

“Absolutely. I’ll replace the one that Barricade dropped.” He looked at his offspring, who was still trying to look cute. Walking into the “room” completely, he scruffed his Sparkling in one hand, and held his hand out for the datapad in the other. Once he received it, he handed it to Sideswipe and sat the child in his hand, firmly tapping the backs of the little black hands with one finger in rebuke, causing the infant to wail once in shock, then stare up at his Caretaker with seemingly massive dark blue optics. Prowl was glad that he and Jazz had agreed to install the standard language pack the moment that their boy seemed to have begun to try to communicate, instead of waiting until the traditional five vorns. “Barricade, you _know_ you’re not supposed to come in here without Sideswipe. You broke one of his datapads and made a mess of the others. What do you have to say to Sideswipe?”

“S-s-sorry!”

“No, you look him in the optic and say it.”

Turning on Prowl’s hand to face the Youngling, Barricade repeated the apology.

“And?”

“Won’ . . . won’t happen ’gain!”

“Good.”

Looking back up at his black-and-white Caretaker, the Sparkling half-moaned, “Hands hurt!”

“I suppose that they do. You disobeyed myself and Jazz. They won’t hurt for much longer, but _remember_ that when we tell you not to do something, you _must_ listen. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes, Prowl.”

“All right. Now.” He settled his Sparkling down on the ground again. “You will help Sideswipe clean up, and after that, you’re going back to your bed for a nap.”

“But—”

“If you talk back to me, there will be a time-out involved, too.”

Barricade clamped his mouth shut, and silently began to help Sideswipe by handing him all the datapads. Once everything was cleaned up, and Prowl had the damaged datapad to replace, he sighed and put the four-foot-tall Sparkling back to bed for his nap, brushing his hand over the small helm lovingly, reassuring the little mechling that he always loved him, even if he was correcting him. Walking back to Sideswipe’s room, he looked over at Sunstreaker’s side to check in with the irritating brat, only to see that the Youngling was watching him intently. He leaned on the partition, tilting his head to one side curiously in query.

“You’re really fair with Caders.”

Prowl wasn’t going to ask why they found him fair. He knew the answer. “Sparklings need structure and a firm ground basis of what is right and wrong, what behaviors are unacceptable and which ones are always acceptable. Treating them like adults helps them understand responsibility and helps them learn how to behave like adults.”

Sunstreaker nodded, turning back to his painting. The boy was gifted, that much was clearly visible, but he was _terrible_ with dealing with anyone other than his Twin. Turning to look at the red Youngling, Prowl asked, “All set in here?”

“Mm-hm. I just have to study hard if I wanna get stay at Sunstreaker’s grade level. I _hate_ studying.”

Chuckling, Prowl nodded. “So did Jazz, but we figured out that studying together helped him motivate himself. If you need a study-partner, ask one of us and we’ll see about helping you.”

“Okay. Thank you!”

“Of course. Now. I need some time with Jazz. We have to talk about a few things before—what?”

Both Younglings had given him a deadpan stare. Sunstreaker turned away, but he did speak. “We’ve been in Kaon since we were upgraded. We’re _not_ unaware of what ‘alone time’ is for adults. We won’t disturb you two fragging each other senseless.”

Prowl leveled a glare at the golden back, and apparently, it was one that even startled Sideswipe, because the red twin froze. The Enforcer spoke. “Sunstreaker, you will look at me.”

Hearing the unyielding tone of voice, the Youngling turned slowly, his own blue optics just as icy as Prowl’s. He said nothing, but made visual contact.

“You will _not_ refer to it as ‘fragging’ while you are under my roof. Neither Jazz nor I care so little for each other that the act is reduced to such banal lust. Am I clear?”

“Yessir.”

“Now.” Standing, he let a hint of amusement creep onto his face. “If you two will excuse me, I’m going to make love to my mate until he offlines.”

They gagged and made noises of disgust while Prowl left the room, seeing Jazz holding his sides and silently laughing so hard that he was having trouble balancing. But it was the one comment that filtered out of the room that had both of them trying not to stumble with laughter.

“Primus slaggit, Sunny, why didn’t you keep your fraggin’ mouth _shut_?! I could have gone without those mental images! Eugh!”

Prowl caught Jazz up, sweeping them back into their room, and closed and locked the door behind him. “Now . . . I mean to keep to my promises.”

The only answer was a smugly drawled reply from the Enforcer and singer. “Mm. And I plan on makin’ ya work for it, mah mate.”

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** “T” Rated chapter is totally rated “T” for a reason. Well, I’m not sure if the Autobots told this to Sam verbatim, but I’m pretty sure that he got the gist of things from the lewd comments that the Terrible Twins probably made during the telling of their introduction to the proto-Autobot command team._

_And as of the last chapter, you guys have written over 200 reviews for this story! For the person who landed the 200th review, I gave them an offer and they took kindly to it! What that offer is, you will simply have to wait and see! Next Review Reward will be for Reviewer #300! (Just please, don’t spam me to get to that point! My inbox thanks you in advance!)_

_Song is: “Lovesong,” the particular cover of which that I’m endorsing is by Adele. Her voice = epic and wonderful._


	25. Epoch Arc 3: This Is Your Life

Elita looked out the window of their suite, frowning as she looked over the ground. “Love?”

“Mm?” Optimus replied, looking up from the bookfile he was reading. Even though he was Prime, he still found at least a half-joor every day to read something that wasn’t related to current events. “What is it?”

“Where’s your brother going?”

Opening his mouth to reply, he found that he didn’t know. Standing and walking up to wrap his arms around his mate, book left unattended upon a simple table, he watched Megatron’s silver form walking boldly across the courtyard in the New Citadel and out the gate. “You know, I don’t know.”

“Getting anything from him?” Elita asked, leaning back against her Bondmate, feeling his Spark beating in time with hers, the strong pulse clearly felt even through the many layers of his chest armor.

“Curiosity. Anticipation. Huh. I think he’s going to get himself some.”

“Some . . . You’re _kidding_! He’s the Lord Protector! Are you saying that he’s going to just skip his way into some brothel and cable-tango with their best pleasure model?!” Elita barked furiously, shocked at the way that the Kaon mech was simply _capable_ of something like that.

The mech was unattached, and therefore, free to spread his affection where he deemed it necessary. It was irritating, however, because it was assumed that Megatron was overtly capable of going whenever he wished without a Guard or escort, but Optimus, who had been devoting two joors an orn to training with Prowl, Ironhide, and even Terratron from time to time, couldn’t take one step outside of his office without someone tripping over his heels like an over-eager turbo-fox kit. He was going to have to have a chat with someone about that someday, or finally get the gumption and ball bearings to challenge Megatron to a skirmish. Sighing, Optimus decided not to begrudge his brother on the freedom of movement or the fact that he was free to get pleasure from any quarter he wished.

“Did that thought _just_ pass through your head?”

No denying it. “Yes, and I’m sorry, Elita. But you know where my Spark rests.”

“Between _my_ clever fingers.”

Shuddering, grinning, Optimus murmured right into her audio, “And I wouldn’t trade you for a world full of pleasure models and the stamina of the Dark One himself.”

“Ooo. Poetic. Are you trying to get some, yourself?”

“Would you blame me if I said yes?”

Elita’s grin was her only warning as she threw herself into his arms, knocking him a pace away from the window and tumbling onto their couch with dual laughs as they enjoyed themselves and the young night.

.o.

“Optimus? Wake up, son.”

“Nnm?” the leader groaned inarticulately, his mate still asleep in his arms, their interfacing cables still tangled around their arms, legs still entwined with Elita resting over his chestplates, two layers of which were still open from their tryst. Blinking in the sudden light, he sighed and muttered in confusion, “Terra?”

“Where’s Megatron, Optimus?”

He replied without thinking, feeling the resonance of his brother’s Spark. “Nn, pleasure quarter, South Iacon, by Maccadam’s. Maybe in the bar.”

“Is he active or inert?”

“Talking. Femme. Finds her interesting. She’s intelligent.” With each sentence, Optimus became more aware of his surroundings. He was _not_ a morning mech yet, and he hadn’t had enough energon in his tanks to replace the energy spent by joors of sating his femme. Several more mechs were in the room, ones that he trusted, thankfully. Prowl. Ratchet. Ironhide. None of them would mention the fact that they walked in on their leader sleeping with cables askew and chestplates cracked. “Saw him leave last night, thought that he had checked in with someone.”

“Apparently not,” Ironhide grumbled, his voice still low. He had no problem dealing with a grouchy Optimus, but everyone who knew Elita feared her temper. “Jazz has been tracking him since this morning, but lost his trail somewhere before Maccadam’s.”

“Just sent him in that direction,” Prowl said, sighing. “Primus, Megs just does whatever the slag he wants when he puts his mind to it. This is getting to be too fragging much.”

“What the _Pit_ are you all doing in my room?” Elita hissed dangerously, going from firmly-in-recharge to bright-and-awake. Optimus let his envy be known to his mate at her reaction, his own responses still groggy and unfocused.

Ironhide and Ratchet _booked_ it to the door and out of the sitting room, leaving Prowl and Terratron to their fate. The looks on their faces as they ran caused Optimus to burst into Sparkfelt laughter, which triggered Terratron’s old chortle. Prowl shook his head and smiled. “We’re sorry to wake you so early, Elita, but Megatron decided to kidnap himself, and your Bondmate just helped us find him.”

“So he _was_ going out to get some last night,” She murmured, not-so-discreetly disconnecting herself and her mate, who helped to coil cords and stow them away, even if his hands were slower to move, closing armor panels over ports. “Huh. He still functioning?”

“Yes. We’ll sic Ratchet on him to make sure he didn’t pick up any viruses,” Terratron replied with a chuckle, holding his hand out for Elita to take, helping her to her feet. Optimus sat up, but didn’t move from the couch. His head still felt packed with steel-wool and fiber padding, not to mention that his gyros were reeling.

“Ooh, Primus,” he muttered, holding his head. “Feels like a bad hangover.”

Elita frowned at her mate and was about to offer him energon, but Prowl handed her a cube of what was clearly medical-grade. She held it up. “And _why_ do you have this? Do you even _know_ how illegal it could be if you were caught with this?”

“I have permits, Elita, don’t harp at me about obeying laws!” Prowl hissed, showing the irritation that was riding under the surface at their Lord Protector. He made visible efforts to calm down, venting with an explanation. “I never leave the apartment without a cube in case I forget to fuel up by a certain time. Too little fuel in my tanks and my processors start to glitch, causing a crash.”

“Delicate health.”

“Just give him the slagging cube and stop baiting me or I will personally remove you and speak with your mate alone. We’re sorry to wake you both so early from what was _clearly_ an enjoyable night, but _I_ , just like _you_ , understand how sometimes we _have_ to put our desires to one side to serve a greater good!”

Optic ridges jumping in surprise, knowing that Prowl would follow through on that promise, Elita did as he instructed, giving her mate the Energon he needed to kickstart his systems again. He threw it back and then felt a sharp pang of anger from Megatron. Wincing, he sent back wary curiosity. “He’s not a happy mech.”

 _:Optimus, have you been spying on me?:_ Megatron’s angry hiss rattled the still-half-awake Prime.

Rubbing at his head, feeling his processors aching, he muttered in reply, _:I was woken up because they couldn’t find you. My processors weren’t and aren’t booting completely, so I answered them honestly for your location. I thought you checked in with someone before you left last night.:_

_:Who the **slag** do you think you are, telling them where I am?! I am Lord Protectorate; I need no fragged babysitters!:_

_:How is **that** fair, Megatron? You insist that I am followed every moment of every day, and yet you insist upon having no Guards walking your roads?:_

_:Oh, I have Guards **now**. An entire Platoon, headed by that infuriating Enforcer mate of Prowl’s.:_

_:That was **not** my decision.:_

_:You **aided** them! Can’t I slagging escape from duties for a night?:_

_:Primus! **I** can’t escape this life either, Megatron! We are in the same situation, and I find myself even holding the shorter end of the stick! You **got** your chance to have a night away from the Citadel! I can’t even do **that**!:_

_:Smelter’s fire. You and I are having a chat when I return.:_

Spark steeling and hardening, Prime growled out loud as he answered, _:More than a chat. It’s time you and I had a sparring match to prove a few things.:_

He heard the deep, pitying laughter over the com-link. _:Is that a challenge, little Orion?:_

“Oh that _bastard_ ,” Elita hissed, glaring at her mate, but not glaring at him.

 _:I’ll be waiting for you in the ring.:_ Clipping the communications off, he stood and winced at the sharp pain in his processors. “Primus damn that egotistical Pit-spawned glitched aft.”

Prowl’s optics widened slightly at the fluid curses coming from the normally-polite mech. “Dare I ask?”

“I need more energon. Regular-grade. Primus, Elita, you’re insatiable, my Sweetspark. I love you.” He stroked her cheek as he stalked out of the sitting room and towards the dispenser, his femme feeling her Spark stutter at the praise and the clear bragging tone telling everyone in their suite that she was incomparable. And the way his aft looked when he stood and walked like the leader he _was_. . . just . . . mm. She smiled and hugged herself, seeing Prowl smiling at her reaction before he followed Optimus out the door.

“What is your plan, Optimus?” Prowl asked as he walked past Ironhide and Ratchet.

“I’m going to drive that smug face of his into the mats. Two or three times.”

“Oh good. That means that I can stop being the one whom it normally falls to.” Prowl chuckled and crossed his arms over his chest. “But before you do that, can you have Ratchet check your processors for corrupted code? Megatron didn’t entirely encrypt that message to you very deeply, and I overheard what you said about your processors not booting completely.” He flicked his doorwings in indication of how he overheard.

In answer, the leader lifted his arm and popped open the medical port while he downed a cube while waiting for the next to finish pouring. Ratchet pulled out a datapad and plugged it in, his shoulder just at the right height and angle for Optimus to rest that arm upon while he did the scan. It was this little subconscious consideration that made it clear to everyone just how very long Ratchet had been a medic. He ran through the code. “Huh. One line of corrupted code, right past the initial boot sector.” Grinning, he looked up at the leader, then to Elita. “So. _How_ many times did you offline Optimus?”

She _giggled_ , but didn’t give him an answer, opting for silence while she walked up to lean against Optimus’ broad, powerful form. When Ratchet looked up at the Prime, all he got was a shake of the head. Looks like neither were wanting to admit to it.

“Well, it’s a simple fix, but for future reference, stop after the fifth offline. Prime, I’m fixing that code now . . .” With a simple fix of three glyphs, he had it settled, hearing the subtle whine of massive processors reaching their optimal processing rate. Pulling the plug free, he closed the port and patted the armor roughly. “You’re set. So what’s the plan, Prime?”

“I’ll meet Megatron in the sparring room. No doubt everyone will be gathering to see this.”

“The first serious sparring match between Prime and Protector?” Terratron said with a smile. “Oh, trust me. When Sentinel and I had ours, it wasn’t _nearly_ in as dignified a situation as you and Megatron have agreed to. We all-out brawled in the middle of an intersection.”

“Who threw the first punch?” Optimus asked, his curiosity getting the better of him as he made sure that his tanks were just to just high enough that they weren’t going to slow him down, and that he had enough to fuel him for the day past the sparring match.

“Nobody knows,” Terratron said with a chuckle, rubbing at his helm in old amusement. “I don’t remember, and no video can prove one way or the other. It was just a tangled mess, it was in broad public, and people started betting on the outcome. Three joors later, we finally called it quits, resolved our issue, and limped home.”

Optimus turned towards the door. “There will be cameras, of course.”

“Without doubt.”

“How much money will change hands today?”

“Enough to settle all the debt in Kaon.”

“Start a betting pool against someone else in this room . . . we’ll use that funding towards helping some debts of offices be paid off.”

“Ironhide!” Terratron said with a grin and a clap to the black armor of his back. “Shall we?”

The rest of the walk moved in a blur. Cybertronians were known to other species among the stars as pack-creatures. They were never alone, they were never without at least two others around them. It took a special mech with a certain level of autonomy who could handle being alone, without communication. Transformers moved as a pack when in times of stress, or when there was an urgent need. They were usually spearheaded by the Alpha or the Alpha Pair, with Beta-members flanking and a step behind, and all other ranks following the Beta-members.

They arrived at the large training room floor with little fanfare, hearing the murmur of mechs in the observation deck. Elita, Ratchet and Ironhide stood on Optimus’ side while he made sure that his armor was all functioning and settling correctly, keeping his gaze on those on his level, focused upon making sure that he knew who was where. Prowl and Terratron stood on “neutral ground,” since they had both helped train the two mechs about to fight. Both held neutral expressions, but it was clear that they were intensely interested in the outcome of what was to happen. Optimus looked to Prowl, who had overseen all of his training, and continued to fine-tune every incremental movement that he knew to the point where there were some moves that they couldn’t perform in training skirmishes anymore.

Prowl easily conceded to Optimus’ greater strength. He locked gazes with the mech whose Spark he knew better than only a handful of other individuals, then nodded. While the Prime didn’t know everything there was to fighting, he was good at improvisation, which was worth twice as much as learned moves at his current skill level.

Optimus returned to preparing himself, finalizing the motions and turning to face the door, stepping upon the mats, half-kneeling to wait the arrival of his brother.

This confused Prowl for a moment. The look on Optimus’ face, the peace that the Prime held, this wasn’t anything that he had been taught. _:Terra . . . Master . . .:_

_:I saw that too, and I feel it. This is something you wouldn’t understand because you aren’t Bonded. What you teach to one, the Sparkmate will show signs of understanding. Elita and Optimus have a tight Bond, which is amplified even farther because of the Matrix of Leadership.:_

_:You know that I’m not supposed to know as much about the Matrix as I actually do.:_

_:Oh, I know. Makes life interesting. There is always a confidant of the Prime who knows as much `about being a Prime and how the Matrix operates. But. You and Arcee have been tutoring Elita in Circuit-Su, the practice of focusing the Spark’s Energy, calming oneself and meditating upon the connections between Spark and self, Spark and Maker, and Spark and Spark. So because of the tight Bond between Optimus and Elita, what she knows, he knows as well and can implement, and vice-versa.:_

That was the moment that Megatron stormed in, followed by Jazz, an unfamiliar femme, and a group of the Guards who were looking understandably harassed. They moved to stand upon the other “neutral” side of the room, facing Prowl and Terratron. Their move was a strategic point that they made, saying that they weren’t going to side with either the Prime or the Protector from a political standpoint. Their action prompted murmurings from those gathered to observe.

Optimus didn’t move from his crouch, signaling with his stillness that he wasn’t going to force the fight to begin, and would wait for Megatron to be ready. That action caused him to pause, not used to seeing the signals he had relied upon during his arena fighting to be coming from his brother. His gaze darted to their teachers, saw their neutral stares, and turned away with a huff of his vents to check the security of his armor. Prowl detected communication between himself and the dark-colored femme beside him, whose lithe build hid a lot of power. _:Jazz, who is that femme?:_

The explicative-laced response he got wasn’t very reassuring. Apparently, this femme had been one that Megatron had been sneaking out to see from time to time over the last several vorns. She was from Kaon, just like Megatron, but from the Eastern outskirts. Mercenary territory. When Jazz was through, Prowl muttered, _:I wonder if he’s serious about her.:_

_:I have serious doubts ’bout her bein’ serious ’bout **him**.:_

_:Mm. That as—SIDESWIPE!:_

The Youngling was standing with his twin and Barricade, watching the proceedings with bright, curious optics.

Jazz looked up over his head, where the trio were located, seeing not just those two, but the Guard’s psychologist with them, a fellow Praxian. Huffing, Prowl glared up at the troublesome twins. _:You two and I are having a long chat.:_

 _:It wasn’t my idea, for once,:_ Sideswipe replied, before making way for a Youngling Praxian frame to look between his and his twin’s shoulders. _:Smokescreen brought us all here.:_

_:Why would he?:_

_:Because you’re training both me and Sunny, and because he wanted to show Blue what fighting will really look like.:_

_:Blue?:_

_:Bluestreak. His little brother. He came two orns ago to see if he wanted to train to be a Guard.:_

Jazz broke into the communication line with ease, including Smokescreen and Bluestreak in the conversation. _:We’re having a talk when the gears wind down. Smokey, I don’t know **what** got into your processors.:_

_:Barricade’s got fast reflexes and an aptitude for fighting. He took Blue down, and he’s still in a Sparkling frame. As a psychologist, I explained that we’re going to see the sparring match of two mechs who have been training for deca-vorns. Trust me, I didn’t just drag them along with me out of excitement of seeing Megatron getting his arrogance handed back to him on a gilded platter.:_

There was silence for a half-moment before Prowl nodded. _:Logical. Very well. But if limbs go flying in your direction, it’s **your** doorwings on the line if Barricade gets injured.:_

_:Absolutely.:_

Jazz stared between the Praxians before gusting air out through his vents in frustration. _:Sometimes, I don’t understand Praxians at **all**.:_

Megatron stepped upon the matting with long, and yes, arrogant, strides. Prowl watched the movements carefully, not wanting to miss a thing. Neither mech taunted the other. Optimus didn’t move from his half-kneel. That position was one that had either great advantage or great disadvantage.

“So you kneel in defeat?” Megatron finally said, growling as he came within striking distance of his brother.

Rocketing upwards, Optimus slammed his knee into Megatron’s face, snarling, “Never!” and dodging the blind haymaker that Megatron threw, moving out of range just long enough to evaluate Megatron’s movements, then moving _with_ the mech’s sweeping kick athletically with a Diffusion move that locked up Megatron’s supporting-leg knee, sweeping the silver form off of his feet with a perfectly-placed push to the still-raised leg.

Roaring in frustration, the Lord Protector swung himself to his feet, headbutting Prime’s lower abdomen, stalling cooling fans with the hit and throwing the red and blue form back. The sparring match degraded from there into an all-out brawl. Prowl watched the movements of both mechs carefully. Megatron was angered, and his rage went unchecked, causing him to have some sloppy movements instead of the calculated strikes that he was capable of. In contrast, Optimus was single-minded and collected.

 _:Prowl, how often do you oversee their training?:_ Terratron asked a few breems into the fight.

He thought about it for a moment, then replied, _:Optimus trains every day, whether I’m there or not. I see him twice, maybe three times a deca-orn since Barricade was Sparked, to ensure that he is learning correctly. I haven’t seen Megatron train in almost two vorns, maybe more.:_

_:Have you taught Megs in the last deca-vorn?:_

_:No, Master, and the blame lies firmly upon his helm. He claimed that he was too busy to pause his schedule in order to learn “weak-Sparked avoidance techniques,” and left the training room in disgrace.:_

_:What does he not know, Prowl?:_ the former Lord Protectorate hissed angrily. The anger startled Prowl into looking at the noble faceplates and violet optics, but there was no emotion to be found, aside from vague interest in seeing the match to completion.

_:He doesn’t know anything past third-form Diffusion, second-form Metallikato, and he knows nothing of Circuit-Su. He is ruled by his anger, his irritation at those who do not perform their duties efficiently and exactly, and he is Optimus’ clear polar opposite.:_

_:Primus’ Breath. What have we done?:_

Prowl sighed, and his optics found his mate’s between the brawling bodies. _:I don’t know, Terra. But we will have to see how we can temper our mistakes.:_

Within moments of his speaking that, Optimus won with a submission hold that _shouldn’t_ have worked, but it did. “Yield!”

“I will _not_!”

He pulled the hold tighter. “Yield, Megatron! I will not hesitate to knock you offline!”

With a roar of agony at servos in his shoulders being stalled and ground against each other, he answered, “Fine! I yield, Optimus!”

Releasing him, the Prime knelt beside his brother, his compassionate Spark showing through his faceplates as he addressed Megatron directly, and privately, causing an angered response that slowly shifted into wariness, then shock, and acceptance. Finally, the silver mech barked a laugh and let himself be helped back to his feet. “Very well, I also yield to your demands.”

Optimus nodded, addressing the crowd even though his gaze was locked onto his brother’s. “From this point forward, the very same requirements for bodyguards will apply to both Prime and Protectorate. We will have no guards within the city limits of Iacon. We will personally choose our own guards when we visit other city-states.”

Megatron turned to look at the unknown femme who stood with hands on hips, watching the two mechs with unblinking red optics, curiosity clearly upon her faceplates. Elita walked up beside her mate, looking over a few places where damage was taken, but nothing more serious than a few dents, and one piece of armor that had been cracked in half, but was still holding onto his frame. The femme smiled up at his face, before looking curiously at Megatron. “Well, are you going to be rude, or are you going to introduce us to your femme?”

“I’m not his,” she replied, her voice smooth and confident, but also holding a hint of amusement. “But _he_ may be mine one day. If I let him.”

Jazz snickered at the shocked look upon Megatron’s face, and Prowl was about to start to disperse everyone when Terratron snarled, “Megatron, you and I are having a talk. Now.” 

Turning, he didn’t wait for his successor to answer, but walked off, leaving the femme blinking after them in shock for a moment. She looked even _more_ shocked with the pack of Younglings ran down onto the floor, up to Prowl, who took his Sparkling from red arms. She watched as the emotionless mech melted at the children, smiling and greeting the twins before greeting the grey and red Youngling that stood behind them a bit timidly. He looked up at her, almost-cranky Sparkling held in one arm, and then burst into motion, switching his stance and . . . _playfully_ pushed the Enforcer that had escorted her away, only to grin and gently toss his Sparkling, who shrieked a high laugh of pure glee to the smaller mech, who kept tossing him up to distract him from his mood while Prowl strode with the Younglings onto the matting.

Optimus obligingly relinquished the square to the mech and three mechlings, nodding to Smokescreen as he and Elita came to stand before the femme. “I apologize that this is how we have met, but as you can tell, Megatron and I have had some need to work out differences, and this seemed to be the only place where we could meet and . . . ‘discuss’ matters. I am Optimus Prime, and this is my Sparkmate, Elita-One.”

“Nightbird,” the femme said, feeling the _draw_ to the mech that Megatron had described. This was a pure Spark, even if an imperfect one, a mortal one. But motions behind the leader and his mate caused her to lean around his frame, watching as the Praxian adult began instructing the three Younglings about balance in one generic fighting stance, often reaching out to push one of them off-balance. “Why is he teaching them fighting?” Something about the red and gold twins seemed familiar, but where did they come from?

“To distract the crowds from us,” Elita said with a smile. “He and his mate know that sometimes, it’s easy to distract a crowd. You just have to know how to grab and hold their attention. Not everyone knows how to teach martial arts and how to make the teachings _stick_.” She smiled and indicated her mate and herself with one small, but sweeping movement. “He’s our primary instructor.”

“ _He_ taught you?” Nightbird asked, blinking before frowning. “Since when?”

Optimus took a moment to think and calculate. “Megatron and I have been in office for just over eight decavorns, so seven decavorns.”

“And Megatron has been brawling and being in an arena for twenty some-odd decavorns . . . The arena! _That’s_ where I saw those two!”

At her surprised shout, the twins turned and looked at her. The red one held wariness in his gaze, the golden one stared at her with outright malevolence. Prowl reached over and “gently” toppled both over with one movement of his arm, moving on to flick at the Praxian Youngling’s doorwing. “I don’t care if anyone is talking about you. Keep your attention on me, and you might just _learn_ something!”

“I can take you down!” Sunstreaker snarled, hands arching into clawed forms and his face lifted in a sneer.

“No you can’t,” Prowl replied calmly. “Even if you and your brother tried your hardest, you wouldn’t be able to ‘take me down’ until you’re in your Adult frames for at least three decavorns, and _only_ if you train harder than Optimus has.”

Sunstreaker glared and moved to spit in irritation, only to find that his mouth was held closed by Prowl’s hand. _How_ Prowl had moved that fast was beyond him, and his optics dilated in shock, realizing that the motion hadn’t even strained the mech they lived with. “Do. Not. Spit. On. My. Mats.”

Sunstreaker’s reply was a muffled, scared, “Yessir.”

Releasing him, Prowl hissed, “You _want_ to learn? You will respect the rules, which are posted _clearly_ upon the wall.” He pointed, then barked, “Stance!”

The three Younglings dropped into the fighting stance in unison, and Prowl pushed at their balance again, especially focusing upon Bluestreak this time, singling him out and tweaking his sensory wings. Nightbird was shocked at the way that he moved between tender Caretaker and strict teacher without pausing between the stages. It was an effective style that both encouraged the mechlings and infuriated them into doing their best. “If we had more martial arts teachers like him . . .”

“Well, they’re hard to find,” the enforcer named Jazz said, feeding the Sparkling who had been tossed to him. “But those who are like ma mech there . . . they’ve all been trained either by a Lord Protector, or were trained by one that the Lord Protector authorized to teach. Few’n’far between, femme.”

“Augh!” Prime hissed and winced away from a mech who had his hands going over one of his injuries. “Slaggit, medic, make noise when you come up behind me!”

“Well, if you’re done trying to look busy, I wouldn’t have to sneak up on you, now would I, _Sparkling_?” Ratchet snarled in return, flicking Optimus’ audio before resuming the repair. “At least I won’t have to glue you back together like I will to Megatron after Terra’s done with that brat.”

Nightbird’s optic ridges flew upwards with the casual disregard that this new mech had for his leaders. Elita was snickering, but was also assisting with repairs. So the black-and-purple femme asked, “Who are you?”

“Senator Ratchet,” Jazz said with a grin. “He was Sentinel’s CMO during the War.”

“Less stress being a medic these days, though,” Ratchet grouched, huffing and pausing his hands. “You. Elita. Give me that piece of armor of his that you picked up.”

She handed it over, but nobody expected him to half-brain the Prime with it before attaching it. “Thank you.”

“What the _frag_ , Ratchet?!” the large mech bellowed.

“Your head is indeed hard enough to help bang dents out of dorsal armoring. Now. You have appointments to keep to, but after you’re finished for the day I want to see you in Wheeljack’s labs so that I can finalize some repairs.”

Grunting his assent, Prime strode off, Elita trotting after him with a broad grin upon her face. Ratchet sighed and shoved his hands upon his hips. He looked to the new femme standing beside them, blinking once. “And you are . . . ?”

“Nightbird,” she replied, voice hesitant after seeing the former CMO’s wrath.

“Uh-huh. You swapping electrons with Megs?”

“Ratchet!” more than one voice rebuked, shocked.

“If the kids understand what I’m saying, _it’s not my fault_!” he pointed out, in fine form today. Returning his attention to Nightbird, he waited for the answer.

“Once,” she ground out, not sure if she could trust these mechs with her private life.

He nodded, answering, “Make sure that you keep malware and virus protection up to date, and if you or he glitch your code out, let a medic, or me, know. Last thing you want to do is get your harddrive fragmented.” Turning on his heel, he paused just as Megatron made his way out of the doorway that he had followed Terratron through. Noting the look on the Lord Protector’s face, he said, “Terra told you about some specific laws regarding competency, did he?”

“Primus’ wrath has _nothing_ on that mech,” Megatron whispered, shaking his head as if to clear it after taking a punch, which, knowing Terra, was likely to have happened.

Barking a laugh, Ratchet put fisted hands on his hips, not showing Megatron any mercy. “Oh, and don’t I know it. You didn’t see him in the Wars, pup. I did. And he’s a scary fragger when slagged off. See to your femme; and make sure you interface _safely_ or I’ll hard-code it into you.”

“Yes, Senator Ratchet.” He sighed and joined Nightbird, causing Jazz to walk over to Smokescreen, soothing Barricade into slumber.

The Guard Psychologist watched Ratchet leave, then sighed and watched the final mechs start to filter out of the observation level. He looked to Megatron, who touched Nightbird’s cheek with infinite gentleness, smiling as she made a smart comment at his expense. The smile turned into a chuckle, and he pressed his forehead to hers. “I suppose I did underestimate my brother. And I paid dearly for it. Come, then. I have to see a medic; he wrenched my shoulder out with that last move.”

“What about that dent on your cheek?” she asked.

“That . . . wasn’t my brother.”

And Jazz and Smokescreen hid their grins. Terratron was _not_ going to let his disciple stray.

.o.

A half-decavorn passed, Nightbird and Megatron remained mates, albeit unBonded, and the two couples were awaiting the arrival of another unBonded couple who were bringing their Sparkling frame to be Sparked. Nightbird was gently ribbing her mate about wanting a Sparkling that they could call their own, and he was replying as any mech would. “Pit, femme, what time do we have to raise our own? Prowl and Jazz allow us to watch over Barricade, and _he’s_ a little terror!”

“Only if you let him get away with it the first several times!” Elita rebuffed, smiling. “He knows that once he’s been told _not_ to do something and it’s firmly reinforced, he doesn’t do it.”

“You’re not helping,” the Lord Protector deadpanned at his brother’s mate.

A chime went off, indicating that the couple had been shown to the waiting area by a neophyte. Optimus smiled at the efficiency of the priests worked with him. Once he established that he was keenly interested in the ways of Primus, they began to truly allow him to work his way into being the High Priest that the Prime was supposed to be. Megatron was confused at how he could balance the clear ability in which he could brawl like the best arena-fighter with the Spark of a mech who could find peace and be peaceful within moments after the fight.

When Optimus was questioned on this, he could only shake his head and spread his hands helplessly, his words simple. “I don’t know.”

Elita and Nightbird, who had struck up a strong friendship, walked off together to greet the couple and bring them to the AllSpark and the Prime. Optimus shook his head, watching the femmes walk off, clearly in each other’s confidences. _:They’re up to something.:_

_:Probably regarding Jazz’s creation date celebration. He’s hitting a landmark number this year.:_

_:You’re right! Prowl told me that he was conspiring a surprise party for the mech.:_

_:And undercover agents are notoriously hard to surprise. Prowl’s being sneaky.:_

They grinned to each other, then fell into a companionable silence as they waited for their femmes, watching as they turned the corner with the couple behind them. Optimus didn’t outwardly show his concern, but something in the Matrix hesitated before silencing itself. He spoke to his companions warily. _:This has to be the first couple that I feel hesitation about.:_

 _:Shall we continue?:_ Elita said, her voice gently wary.

 _:We’ll keep a wary optic on them,:_ Megatron promised, as Optimus nodded what was a greeting to the new couple, and an affirmative to his mate.

He greeted them verbally, holding his hands out for the Sparkling frame, feeling the desire arise anew for having and raising a Sparkling from his and Elita’s hands. He noted that they handed the frame over quickly. Half of the couples were eager and would all but shove the Sparkling into his hands, and the other half would have that endearing hesitation, showing that they were especially responsive and understanding of the Caretaker programming; they weren’t sure that they could trust the _frame_ to the mech who was able to bring _life_ into it. It was the latter group of couples that he knew would raise their Sparklings into responsible adults who would shape Cybertron into a grander whole.

But this couple . . . they were almost _negligent_ of how the Sparkling frame’s limbs tumbled into Optimus’ broad palms. He suppressed his indignation, feeling Elita’s Spark spike with barely-controlled fury. Smiling at the frame itself, seeing the sweet lines, he murmured, “Who designed this masterpiece?”

“It’s an heirloom,” the taller mech said with almost an air of languid boredom trailing across his movements and expressions. “Belonged to someone a generation or three back.”

“Exquisite,” Optimus murmured in appreciation, smiling and walking up to the AllSpark. He scanned the frame, storing the schematics away in his mind to ask Ratchet for something similar in a few vorns. The old medic clearly enjoyed being a Caretaker to orphaned Younglings, and he and Wheeljack had their hands and time full with the Twins, but they were also able to take commissions every now and again. Because of their experience with the noble house’s Sparkling, they narrowed their commissions down to “if I personally know you, I would be _happy_ to spend the time on frames.” They had their functions to fulfill as Senator and Engineer, and that was after being Caretakers of troublesome Younglings.

So the Prime walked up to the AllSpark, resting his fingertips along the Cube, feeling the supernatural static building between his frame and the artifact. However, there was no manifestation, no energy, nothing to indicate that the Sparkling frame would be inhabited. Blinking, he pulled his hand away, looking at it and frowning in thought. Drawing in a fresh cycle of air, he gently pinged the Matrix, not understanding.

_:Do not trust them, Orion Pax.:_

His optics widened in shock at hearing the multi-hued voice from the Matrix, and he shook his frame lightly and fluffed his armor out before letting it settle comfortably again. _:What should I do?:_

Silence, then, _:Research them. Walk around the Cube while you wait for answers. Slowly.:_

Optimus sent a brief message to the same effect of “watch them closely, don’t let them do anything stupid, trying something,” to his mate, brother, and brother’s mate while he walked along the line of the cube. He contacted his Enforcer of choice, knowing that he had come to Simfur to begin hunting down the parts for Barricade’s Youngling frame. He was supposed to be standing outside the Temple by now, because they were going to all be doing some shopping on this orn. _:Prowl, I am in need of your skills. There are two mechs that came to ask for a Sparkling, and I’m hesitant about them. Something feels “off” about them. Their names are Wildrider and—:_

 _:Stop. I’ll be right there. Stall. Don’t let them get away,:_ Prowl interrupted, his voice cold. _:What does the Sparkling frame look like?:_

Prime sent a hologram of the small frame to his friend and supporter.

_:Well frag me over the Smelter’s forge.:_

_:Elita would take offense, and Jazz would only want to have some sort of fair play turned about for his enjoyment.:_

_:. . . Prime, you’re one mischievous, twisted mech.:_

_:Comes from the mech who cussed it out. Where is this frame from?:_

_:Reported stolen from a storage unit two orns ago. Looks like they’re wanting to breed mechs from Sparkling-up into being gladiators. Uh, okay. We’re in the Outer Sanctum . . .:_

_:Why aren’t you coming in?:_

_:Several superstitious mechs in this Guard squad. They don’t want to desecrate the Inner Sanctum.:_

Switching channels, Optimus ordered, _:Megatron, order the Guards outside the door to enter **now** and to seize those mechs for arrest. Prowl is with them, can’t get them to enter, and he has the details.:_

_:Oh, finally! Action!:_

Just as Optimus came back around the side of the Cube, the doors burst inwards and Guards swarmed around the couple, subduing them in record time and getting them out of the Inner Sanctum within two breems. Optimus looked to Prowl, who waited behind. “What do we do with the Sparkling frame?”

“I’m . . . I’m not sure.” Prowl seemed at a loss for the second time that day. Looking up at the Cube, he let himself relax, finding that peace that he had felt right before Barricade had been Sparked. Doorwings drifted down from their rigid set, and he murmured, “Primus _is_ here, isn’t He, Optimus?”

The Prime and his mate shared a look before he nodded solemnly. “Only doorwinged mechs and those with sensitive, emotive Sparks are able to recognize His touch on the AllSpark.”

“It’s not frequency, is it?” the Enforcer asked rhetorically, still letting himself soak in the feeling once again.

“I’m not sure. Scientists couldn’t figure it out, but they’re mechs of cold facts. Priests are mechs who walk a careful line of balance between mysticism and reality. Even I can’t be sure of myself when I walk through those doors; I know as a reality that He is here, but I can’t tell where. I know that He’s watching every Spark that separates from the AllSpark, but how? You can see how it can become a tangled mess. We all live with the understanding that Primus _is real_ , and that His existence is an undeniable fact, proof-positive in that we have a Spark resting in our frames.” Optimus shook his head, looking down at the Sparkling frame in his hands. “But this is the first time that I have seen him refuse to give life.”

There was a moment of tense silence that followed Optimus’ words, broken by a burst transmission. Prowl blinked, replying with a query, then shook his head and looked up at the leader. “You will _not_ believe what I was just told.”

Smiling, the large mech murmured, “Very well, shock me.”

“The family whose storage unit was broken into had no plans for that Sparkling frame; it was merely one of several from their ancestry. They’ve stated publicly that if the Prime and his Sparkmate wished to have that frame, they would consider it a gift.”

Elita and Optimus stared at each other and didn’t move for one long moment, no doubt discussing this between themselves. Optimus turned towards Prowl. “May I have their com-frequency?”

“Certainly.” Prowl smiled and patched Optimus and Elita into the conversation. _:Freespark, I have Optimus and Elita wishing to speak to you and your mate.:_

_:Primus! They’re busy enough without having to pause for us!:_

_:Not at this moment, actually,:_ Optimus murmured, his deep voice embracing the Bondmates on the other end of the line. _:Are you certain that you wish to release the frame to us?:_

 _:Certain?:_ Freespark, the femme, said brightly. : _Prime, it would be our honor! Our family has more Sparkling frames than we have resources to raise them! We’ve been a long line, and the frames are, at this point, taking up space.:_

 _:But it’s an antique frame from before the War!:_ Elita protested.

 _:And it’s not doing anyone any good sitting on a shelf.:_ the femme retorted cheerfully.

Her mate came into the conversation. _:Please, Prime and Consort, please accept this as our thanks for closure, for finding the mechs that broke in and stole some precious items.:_

 _:If they’re precious—:_ Optimus began, but was happily surprised at being cut off.

_:Then they’re more precious to you, as Prime, than to us, as citizens. My Caretakers were Senators for Sentinel. I understand these things.:_

There was silence for a quarter-breem, which was followed by the Prime nodding slowly. _:Then . . . thank you. This gift is truly appreciated. If you are ever in need of anything, please don’t hesitate to contact myself, or Prowl, who is a dear friend of mine.:_

_:Of course, Optimus Prime.:_

They spoke farewells, and the line cut dead. Optimus looked at the little silver Sparkling in his hands, feeling his mate whisper to his Spark, _~Orion, my love . . .~_

 _~Can we?~_ he whispered back, optics meeting her own, his voice filled with childlike hope.

_~I was about to start begging you.~_

He chuckled, reaching out to bring his Sparkmate, his literal other half, into an embrace, bending to press his forehead to hers. Glancing to his brother and Prowl, he took Elita’s hand, and they walked back to the Cube, this time, for the first time . . . for themselves.

The Matrix fairly hummed with approval, almost _vibrating_ against his Spark in this moment. He looked at the small form in his hand once more, smiling and stroking the small helm once before he turned and looked to Elita, who reached up and held the frame for him. Stroking her cheek with his now-free hand, he smiled and couldn’t even speak his love for her. All he could do was project the emotions that surrounded this moment, feeling her own love for him, joy, anticipation, and understanding.

He reached up and brushed his hand over the AllSpark, whispering a prayer to Primus, _right_ before a strong Spark leapt and danced around his fingertips. He didn’t rush moving his hand, instead chuckling at the little Spark that formed while it continued to shift and move. And then it was in the Spark Chamber, and he was finding himself staring into the simply massive Sparkling optics.

 _~How did he online so fast?~_ he whispered.

_~I have no slagging idea, but he’s the cutest Spark ever to online!~_

Chuckling, he leaned down to press his helm to the Sparkling’s, feeling the little one throw small arms around his face, chirping and clicking happily before releasing him and looking to the femme, reaching upwards entreatingly. When he was obliged with the greeting of a Caretaker to a Sparkling, he settled himself down for a moment, looking around at his world, taking it all in. When he saw the AllSpark, he chirped and reached towards it. Prime sent a query to the Matrix, and, in getting an affirmative, took the little one and lifted him so that he could touch one corner.

The Sparkling crooned, his fingers resting on the ancient metal, and he chirped a greeting before pulling his hands away and looking at _his_ Adults.

His Sparked Caretakers.

Optimus looked to his mate, who smiled and murmured, “Welcome to life, little one.”

Giggling brightly at her voice, loving the sound of it, he looked up at Optimus, who murmured, “Welcome to our family, bright-Spark.”

He smiled and heard his mate’s voice as she named their Sparkling. “Bumblebee.”

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** This was supposed to be out sooner, but there was a lot of unexpected stuff going on in this last week. I was under the weather for a day or two, then a friend had to go to the ER and I stayed with him while they figured out what the problem was. (He’s fine, but **man** do we have stories about what you’ll find in the ER from 12:30 AM onwards for almost 10 hours.) Then there was the day of recuperation where I watched G1 (or tried to, again), and passed out on Episode 4. Again. Sunday was a cookout at my Rabbi’s house, followed by watching Tron._

_So I finished this on Monday morning, even before my first cup of tea. (I know a few of you reading this know me well enough to know what that means.) So 7.8K words later, here you are!_

_And special thanks to all my current and new watchers, and all my current and new readers and reviewers! Without seeing your words and the hits that this story has been getting, I wouldn’t have continued writing it past that first arc. It’s because of you guys that I’ve been able to write this much for you all!_

_Song is: “This Is Your Life” by Switchfoot_


	26. Epoch Arc 4: Toss the Feathers

Bumblebee was a delight to everyone who encountered him. He was a happy Sparkling, rarely fussy, and was, to many, what the “perfect Sparkling” should be. That said, he was a little troublemaker, but it was never mean-spirited. And if someone was hurt on any level, even if was a stubbed foot or being disappointed in him, he would do everything possible to make it up to the person.

Usually, that involved snuggling. And his snuggles were especially soothing to the Spark, though nobody could quite understand or articulate _why_.

Elita sat on Optimus’ desk while she helped him go through paperwork, Bumblebee tumbling around the Prime’s feet, chasing imaginary petro-rabbits. Smiling at his antics, she looked up at hearing a ping at the door. Ironhide walked in at Prime’s absent-minded summon, grinning at the couple. “Chromia said that you two need a day off.”

“No time,” he replied, signing off on a form and sending it off, putting the datapad down in the “completed/discard” pile to pick up another.

At hearing Ironhide’s gravelly voice, Bumblebee shot out from around Optimus’ desk, launching himself onto the black leg with a series of happy chirps at seeing his second-favorite mech in all the world. Ironhide hitched the Sparkling up to hold him against his chest, right over his Spark, smiling at the sweet face. He and Chromia had just launched their newly-Adult Youngling not a vorn before, and they were thinking of quietly raising another Sparkling. But Bumblebee was always a joy to babysit.

“Uh-huh. Well, I’m taking Bee down to greet some fresh recruits.”

“Playing that game again?” Elita asked with a grin.

“Always, now that Barricade’s a Youngling and wants to train instead of helping me screw with impressionable minds.”

“Wouldn’t _he_ be the impressionable one?” the Prime murmured with amusement, finally looking up from the paperwork.

Barking a laugh, Ironhide asked, “Have you _met_ his Caretakers? Psh.”

“I’m right _here_ , Ironhide,” Prowl grumbled as he walked into the room, nodding to Elita and holding a hand out to help her down off of the desk gallantly. “You two, out, now. I’m still off-duty thanks to that last mission gone wrong, and the Chief won’t let even me back into the building even though my leg is completely repaired. I’m _bored_ , and you two were just conspired against. Get going, get some time to yourselves. You haven’t had more than a joor together since that bratling came online.” He grinned at hearing Bumblebee’s playfully-indignant chirp at the nickname, turning to chuckle and smile at the child.

“So if we were conspired against, _what_ are we doing?” Optimus asked, sighing as he stood. There was no arguing with his closest friends when they got their hands set on a prize and their willpower settled into gear and gunning for it. And he just _knew_ that Ratchet was somewhere nearby, waiting to see if he would be called in.

Prowl handed him a datapad. “Vacation. Three orns. Bumblebee will be either be watched by Ironhide and Chromia, Jazz and myself, and Nightbird and Megatron are on-call if something comes up.”

“And we’re going _where_?” Elita asked. She looked to her mate, who was staring in shock at the datapad. “Love?”

“We’re going to Praxus.”

“What?” She took the datapad from his fingers, blinking at the location. “That . . . that’s the most expensive resort in Praxus, Iacon, and Simfur _combined_!”

“And you’re the Prime and Prime’s Consort and you haven’t had a vacation since you took to office. Get going. They’re expecting you.”

“But . . . Guards?” Optimus asked warily.

“Hand-picked by me so they won’t stand out, and you know at least one of them personally.”

“Praxians.”

“Yes. I have a few off-duty Enforcers also keeping an eye on the resort, with compensation from a personal fund. Now get going. Smokescreen is waiting for you.”

“What about Bluestreak? His Creators were just off-lined in that building collapse . . .” Elita whispered, frowning. “He needs his brother.”

“I have Prowl,” the soft whisper of the Youngling stated from around the corner of the doorway. It had been a half-vorn since he lost the mech and femme whom he shared a Creator Bond with. At Prowl’s open hand of invitation, he walked into the room and paused, not wanting to show weakness in front of the mechs and femme that he looked up to with clear admiration. “He’s . . . he’s almost like a brother to me. And he’s Praxian. He understands.”

Prowl rested his hand upon the waist-high helm, his thumb rubbing small, reassuring circles upon it gently. “He’ll be helping me with paperwork until it’s time for lessons with the Terrible Twins. Now get going!” He picked up a datapad warningly, threatening to brain the couple with it if they didn’t leave now. “Everything you need is already there! Go!”

Looking to each other, Optimus and Elita said a quick farewell to their Sparkling, sure of his safety in the hands of Ironhide, Chromia, Prowl and Jazz, then darted out of the room like Younglings daring to defy their Caretakers, off to interface either other stupid.

Prowl chuckled, shaking his head. “Those two are worse than newly-Bonded, hands down.”

“Mm. Well! I’m off to scar some young, impressionable minds!” Ironhide said cheerfully, leaving Prowl and Bluestreak in the Prime’s office together.

Shaking his head, Prowl pulled out a datapad from his subspace to hand to Bluestreak. “No studying for Academy today; you’re still ahead of your class. Here.”

“What is it?” Bluestreak asked, taking the datapad and finding a chair that he could curl up in without squishing his sensory wings.

Settling himself in Prime’s chair and figuring out his paperwork system, Prowl replied, “You were interested in being either a Guard or Enforcer Sniper, and you have the aptitude for it. Those are all the aptitude and personality tests for that position.”

“Why are you giving them to _me_? I’m just a Youngling. I have no other significance, I’m just a kid whose parents aren’t there anymore and I have nothing but Academy to attend,” he rambled, then clamped his mouth shut. He had been finding himself rambling on to distract himself from the horrible truth that he was an orphan.

Looking up with a kind expression on his face, Prowl murmured, “Ratchet told me not long after my own Caretaker suicided that I was a Youngling only in frame. I was acting like an Adult for far longer than I had been in this frame. You still have a ways to mature, but you’re not looking at life as a child anymore. Unfortunately, death of a family member tends to do that to a mech.”

“But I’m _not_ going to be able to make a difference! I mean, you have your processors, which makes everyone else look _slow_ in comparison, and Smokescreen has his psychology and his diversionary tactics that really makes him valuable for being on the Guard force, but I’m just someone who hasn’t even the natural skills to do anything of importance! I’m a _kid_ , I don’t even know how to do anything specialized!”

Prowl got up and crouched beside the Youngling, pulling the datapad out of his hands and settling it to one side before taking the smaller hands in his larger ones, looking them over keenly. “Hm. You have hands.”

“Well, _yeah_. I mean, I was designed with them like every other mech or femme on this planet.”

“They are functioning normally. You can put them to work.”

“I . . . suppose. What are you getting at?”

Ignoring the question, Prowl continued to inspect his arms and then visibly scanned Bluestreak’s optics, followed by his doorwings. “Your optic sensors are functioning with above-average sensitivity. Sensory wings are functioning at one-hundred-twenty-five percent above normal as well.”

“I don’t understand where you’re going with this!”

“Patience. Patience is one thing that you lack.”

That shut the Youngling up for a moment as he strained to figure out what the Pit this mech was saying to him.

“Bluestreak, you have the perfect components for being a sniper, for being a mech who covers those on the front lines.”

“For killing mechs.”

“For _protecting_ your team. There _is_ a difference. You won’t always have to pull the trigger, so long as things don’t get out of hand.”

“And you want to see if I have the correct personality for this? You want to see if I have the right aptitude?”

“Yes. And if you do, and if you _want_ to be a sniper, then Smokescreen, Jazz and I will do everything in our power to help you achieve it. We’re here to support you, little brother, to help you. But you have to let us help you.”

Bluestreak picked the datapad with a decisive movement, turning it on and looking down at it wordlessly. Brushing his hand over the helm affectionately, Prowl returned to the desk to get some of this paperwork finished. And then he paused and looked up at the Youngling. “You know, I have a better idea for how you can spend the afternoon . . .”

.o.

“All right, you rusty, pathetic excuses for trainees! You made it through the first tier of training. You got through it. Congratulations,” Ironhide said with clear sarcasm and distain. “It only gets harder from here. You want to be the best warriors that Cybertron has? You want to protect our leaders? You’re in for Pit.” He paced in front of the ranks of trainees that got through the initial recruiting and training stages, Bumblebee trotting along behind him. He had one sensor trained on the Sparkling at all times out of habit.

Standing in front of them, he began to lecture the brats on what responsibilities that they, as rust-ridden mismatched junk-framed and slow-processored wastes of energon, would have while they completed training. Bumblebee began to climb his leg in boredom.

The purpose of having the Sparkling there was to see their reactions, and to see where they were focusing their attention. A third of them were clearly distracted at seeing the white and silver Sparkling tumbling and playing around his ankles. The other two-thirds would glance only every so often to make sure that the Sparkling was still safe, but otherwise, they were completely focused upon the mech training them. Ironhide tagged those who weren’t paying attention for punishment and lectures later.

Picking Bumblebee up by his scruff and depositing him between arm and chest, Ironhide continued to pace again, ignoring the valiant efforts of the little Spark until he started to hear gears grinding. He flicked the back of his head gently in rebuke, sighing and muttering a soft, “Knock it off, Sparklet” between addressing the crowd, gaining a petulant whine from the child. Pausing again in his place dead-center, he said, “And I don’t care if you have any questions or concerns. _You_ signed up for this. Welcome to hell, kids.”

And then, as if on cue, hell broke loose.

Paint-bombs were lobbed through the air with perfect aim to land and splatter all over the mechs and femmes gathered, followed by pierced paint-bombs that leaked as they were thrown expertly through the air. Ironhide dodged the majority of the bombs, watching as the troops screamed, slid, skidded into each other in their attempt to either escape or try to find those who were “attacking” them.

Well, this lot was useless.

Ironhide was striped with enough colors to make the most eccentric frame-painter gag, especially with how bright and reflective half of the colors were. Then came the kicker.

Black paint.

Groaning, he found himself spattered in primarily garish pink, green, yellow and pitch black. Hearing the shouts of the Guards from his personal detail at finding the kids responsible for the prank, he scruffed Bumblebee and held the paint-striped Sparkling up to his face, seeing the clear delight upon the small faceplates at the colors that were striped across his form. He had gotten hit with more yellow than was necessary, and striped by the black that dripped from Ironhide’s armor.

Giggling, the Sparkling chirped the word for “love this!”

Ironhide’s shoulders drooped. Elita was gonna _kill_ him.

.o.

“ _So_ worth it!” Barricade said with a snicker, leaning back against the wall in the bare room that they were being held in, careful of his stubby sensory wings that he had asked for in his Youngling upgrade. Bluestreak was grinning broadly, longer and more graceful sensory wings perked up in a clearly high-spirited position, the first real sign of outward happiness since his Caretakers had been extinguished. He looked to the Twins. Sideswipe was still snickering at the look on Ironhide’s face, and Sunstreaker looked smugly pleased with the whole prank.

“Mm-hm. Punishment will be worth it, too,” the artist said with a grin. “Ratchet hasn’t even contacted us yet.”

“I wonder who was the most torqued-off out of them all?” Bluestreak asked, head tilting to one side.

“Prowl. Prowl’s a _huge_ stickler for playing by the rules,” Sideswipe said.

“Naah. Ironhide,” his twin rebuffed, finally snickering. “His temper’s nasty to begin with.”

“Takes one to know one, doesn’t it?” Barricade teased, getting cussed out for his efforts. He leaned back against the wall again. “My credits are on Ratchet being the most torqued. I’ve seen him mad before; he makes Ironhide look like a petrorabbit staring at a hungry turbofox.”

The door was opened by none other than Ironhide, the mech glaring down at the quartet of miscreants balefully before pointing out past him and into the training room. They filed past him silently, shocked at the scene that was unfolding before them. Ratchet was standing over Prowl, who was holding his left optic and wincing, but clearly paying careful attention to what the heavier mech was saying.

“You _encouraged_ this?! What the _slag_ is wrong with you?!”

“Woah,” Sunstreaker said, finally shocked out of his smug mood at seeing their martial-arts teacher downed by the Caretaker who raised him.

“It served multiple purposes,” Prowl replied clearly.

“And it’s causing a backlog in the medical bay with minor injuries, strained rotors, and _who knows_ what else!”

“You aren’t a medic anymore, Ratch.”

“Doesn’t mean that I avoid my old profession! Now you listen hard! I don’t want them causing this much chaos!”

“Can I get up off of my doorwings, Ratchet?”

“No!”

“Frag.”

Four Youngling mouths were dropped in shock at this point, but Ratchet wasn’t through. “Do you think that this was supposed to be _funny_?”

“Have you _seen_ the video?” Prowl said, unable to suppress his grin.

“Have I seen _what_ video?” he asked warily, straightening and taking a half-step backwards.

Prowl took this moment to sit up and get out of Ratchet’s range, standing up and looking to the Sparklings through one bright and one dim optic. “They put together quite the montage of today’s events.” Standing, he stated, “Yes, chaos reigned. However, it was to a purpose. When you have a loose cannon, you want to find somewhere to aim it.”

“So you aimed these _miscreants_ to disrupting _my address to the recruits_ with _paint bombs?!_ ” Ironhide bellowed.

“How many of those recruits were you going to dismiss back to basic at the start of your address?” Prowl asked logically, blinking his bad optic a few times to try to clear it.

Grumbling, Ironhide stated, “A third.”

“And how many now?”

“Over half.”

“Why?”

“Because they panicked, and I can’t have that on my advanced teams.”

“Well, then they helped you solve a rather sticky issue, now didn’t they?” Prowl crossed his arms over his chest.

“You’re _siding_ with them?”

“I told the Twins not to hurt anyone and I told them that if they were caught, which they clearly were, then they were just going to serve the punishment that they were given.”

“Wait. You _knew_ we were gonna get caught?” Sideswipe asked incredulously.

“Oh, without a doubt. You’re novices at pranks. All it means is that you’re going to just have to work harder.”

“Frag,” Sunstreaker growled, shoving hands onto his hips with irritation and determination.

“Language,” Ratchet snarled. Glaring to Prowl again, he snorted and looked to Ironhide. “Fine. _You_ choose their punishment.”

Ironhide grinned broadly to the quartet of troublemakers, causing all four to whirr with uncertainty.

.o.

Optimus and Elita walked back through Iacon at an ambling pace, smiling and greeting many of the mechs who paused to greet them casually. No guards followed them. Even Smokescreen had left their company to venture ahead, stating that he had some business to attend to. One of the conditions of their forced vacation was that they weren’t going to know any news or gossip about the Citadel, unless it was a dire need for them to return.

They walked hand-in-hand through the city, towards the towers that they resided within, seeing more and more Guards the closer that they went. Frowning, Elita muttered across their Bond, _~I’m getting a bad feeling about this.~_

_~Guards looking smug and far-too-pleased with themselves? I agree with you, Sparklove.~_

_~Slag.~_

Straightening, they began to walk as the leaders they were, not just lovers returning home from a restful few orns of hydraulic-massages, getting their paint stripped, then repainted and detailed by master artisans, buffed and waxed to perfection, and not to mention the lovemaking in their suite that overlooked the Crystal Gardens. They had their time to themselves, and it was time that they returned.

And when they reached the main courtyard, Optimus saw his predecessor with vents heaving angrily, staring at four Younglings and one Sparkling who stood with Prowl, Ironhide, Chromia, Ratchet, Megatron and Nightbird at their backs and Terratron watching from a doorway with a smirk on his face. Prime blinked and looked around for the source of Sentinel’s irritation. And when he saw it, he had to choke back his vocal processor so that he wasn’t laughing uproariously. Elita followed his gaze and hid behind him to laugh silently, shoulders shaking with her mirth.

“Well, I can see that when I take a vacation, the humor returns to our Citadel, Megatron. Should I be concerned?” Optimus spoke, his voice stalling all comments, laughter and talking of the Guards.

“Perhaps,” Megatron stated. “But then again, you haven’t seen the _other_ pranks that the kids have been pulling the last two orns. They’re still serving punishment for the first one, and _this_ is minor in comparison.”

“Mm. Seems so. Sentinel, why did you wait to let yourself be repainted by an artist in training?” Elita asked with all seriousness upon her face and within her voice. “I have at least seven master artisans who contacted me with their wish to serve the Citadel by donating their time to repainting and enameling armor.”

“Femme,” Sentinel growled, “You are wearing on my already-thin patience.”

“And you’ve been wearing on mine since I entered office as Prime’s Consort. Get your pink aft out of my courtyard before I remove it with the audience in attendance,” she snarled, optics glittering like the precious ice-jewels from Nebulous.

It took him a moment, but the mech turned around and walked off, his quite-neon-pink aft stalking away. Optimus looked to the Younglings, then down to his Sparkling who was in the process of darting over to them. Picking Bumblebee up by his scruff and turning him left and right, he asked, “Dare I ask why he’s yellow and black?”

“Wouldn’t let us strip the paint off,” Ratchet grumbled while Ironhide walked around to disperse the crowds. “That was from their _first_ prank. Kiddo likes having the color scheme on him.”

“Hm. Well, I’ll let him keep it for a while. Elita, when are we scheduled to upgrade his language packs?”

“Tonight,” she muttered, huffing. “I want to make it known to him that he can _keep_ the colors of his choice, but I will _not_ tolerate an ill-done paint job on _my_ Sparkling.”

“Here you go,” Optimus said, plopping their boy into her arms, which was just what he knew she needed. Bumblebee flattened himself around her chest, pressing himself as close to her Spark as he could get, sighing and murmuring sleepily at feeling her Spark so close to his. Resting one fingertip along Bee’s back, the leader asked, “Has he been recharging well?”

“Only while upon someone’s Spark. He’s closely-bonded to you both, even without the Creator Bond in place.” Ratchet shook his head, sighing. “I have Younglings to discipline. Including Prowl. He keeps letting them just _plot_ away without any sort of restrictions!”

“Untrue,” Prowl retorted, walking up with Jazz. “They _have_ restrictions. If they’re caught after a prank, they’re punished. If they’re caught _plotting_ , they’re punished. If someone is hurt, they’re going with them to help Ratchet or the on-site medic team to repair the injured party.”

_:What are you up to, Prowl?:_

_:They’re our replacements some day, Prime. I want them prepared. This is one way of training them to learn how to work together and in a hostile environment. They have the brains to be leaders. Besides. They need each other, and this is helping them bond as friends.:_

Optimus looked back to Ratchet, then to his Sparkling sleeping peacefully in his Sparkmate’s arms, sprawled over her chest. Smiling, the leader stated, “Well, so long as they’re aware of the punishments, I don’t see why not. I’m still on vacation, and I plan on enjoying the rest of the orn with my family.” With that, he literally scooped Elita up and carried her with his arm under her knees and behind her shoulders to carry her and their sleeping child up to their suite to finish their well-earned rest.

Ratchet glared at his grown Youngling accusingly. “ _What_ did you say to him?”

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Figured that this would start to get a few things cleared up: Twins are troublemakers, Bluestreak needed them and they pulled him out of his shell . . . and Barricade’s involvement in their lives starts to thicken. Next chapter gives you some very interesting new plots!_

_(Currently writing two chapters at once. Dude. My brain. Hurts. I’ve finished this Arc with one more chapter, and I’m working on both the next Fireside Interlude and I just finished the first chapter of the next arc. Details in the next chapter’s Author’s Note.)_

_Song is: “ **Toss The Feathers** ” and it’s a mischievous Celtic song that has been recorded by so many people that all you have to do is look for it on YouTube and you’ll find at least a hundred different videos of it. For two specific versions that spring to mind, look for the live recordings done by the **Chieftains** , or the **Corrs.**_


	27. Epoch Arc 5: Firedance

“They’re at it again,” Wheeljack sighed, smiling ruefully at hearing their rambunctious twins start up another fight. Ratchet shook his head, monitoring the arguing as he had done so many times. He laid back on their berth in the middle of the night, feeling his mate’s exhaustion by the way that his injured frame lay half-draped over his own.

“How are you feeling?”

“Mm, I’ll be fine later.”

“You worry me, Jack.”

“I’m sorry. I know.”

They rested together until they heard something crash. Ratchet pushed Jack’s shoulder back down gently. “I’ve got it. Recharge. I’ll be back in later.”

Walking out their door and into the Twins’ room without knocking, he looked at the destruction of a sculpture that Sunstreaker had been working on for almost a vorn as his entry into a prestigious art gallery. Ratchet looked to see the golden Youngling trembling with anger, the crimson twin backed up to the wall, looking like he was genuinely scared of the other half of his soul. Neither broke their shared gaze to acknowledge Ratchet walking in until he seated himself precisely in the middle between them and spoke. “Come here, both of you.”

“No.”

“That wasn’t a request, Sunstreaker. Here. Now.” He pointed to his knee imperiously, not looking at either twin.

“He’ll hurt me,” Sideswipe whispered.

“He’s _your other half_. He hurts you, he hurts _himself_ and I’m sure that he _knows_ that.”

“He’s already hurting.”

“Mm. I know, and so are you. I want to help you both stop hurting. Get over here.”

Even though Sideswipe took the first step closer to his Caretaker, Sunstreaker was the first to settle upon Ratchet’s knee, looking angry. Both looked miserable. Ratchet rested a hand on each to non-invasively scan systems. “Why are you both up and arguing this late at night?”

It took two joors, several embraces, and the Twins falling into recharge over Ratchet’s Spark before the Senator felt like things would be better come the next morning. He and Wheeljack knew that taking in the Twins was going to be a rough time due to their past and the broken nature of their prior “home” environment. Sideswipe was full of himself as a façade, and loved to play pranks and pull trouble behind him like it was a toy. He could be blessedly naïve in some situations. Sunstreaker was obsessed with physical beauty. He was obnoxious and antisocial to the point of being sociopathic. His temper got him in trouble more times than anyone could count, and Ratchet and Wheeljack were considering schooling him at home instead of at the Academy because of all the fights he had been getting into.

And the fights that _he_ entered, _Sideswipe_ was inevitably dragged into.

So here he was, lounging against the shared berth that the twins recharged upon, both troublemakers curled up on his chest, stains on their faces from the cleaning fluids that secreted under stress and anguish . . . and he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. If he moved, they would startle themselves awake. Rearranging his arms around the two a bit more comfortably and locking his frame down for recharge, Ratchet smiled at the Twin Terrors before letting himself fall into recharge.

“Ratch?” a small, timid voice murmured, waking him up some five joors later.

“Nn. Sideswipe?” he asked, activating his optics, feeling a blanket that had been draped around them sometime during the night. “What is it?”

“There’s someone in the house with Wheeljack.”

“I don’t want them seeing our mess,” Sunstreaker added, looking down at Ratchet’s armor in shame.

Smiling tenderly, the almost-old mech murmured softly, “Even if they do, they know something that you both are learning.”

Identical looks of curiosity on identical faces blinked up at him.

“I _love_ you both as if you were from my own Spark, and _nothing_ will ever change that, not even all the trouble that you both get into, and all the trouble that you cause with Bluestreak and Barricade.”

He felt their shared Spark stutter before they keened softly, digging small hands into his frame to hold him tighter, pressing their broken Spark closer to his. Smiling, he whispered, “Ah, my Sparklets. Don’t _ever_ think that I could let you escape my love.” He let them just cry themselves out while he heard the report from Wheeljack that Barricade and Bluestreak had come over, but that he was entertaining them until the Twins were ready to face their friends.

.o.

Barricade stared at himself in the mirror, sighing and trying to get that one last smudge off of his armor before his graduation ceremony into the Higher Academy. He huffed, unable to reach it, then gave up. He had wanted to be able to clean himself on his own for the ceremony. “Jazz?”

The black and silver helm poked into the washracks of their apartment from where he and Prowl were finishing up getting ready. “Yeah?”

He hated saying it. “I need help.”

“Right. Prowler, you good?” There was a pause, and Barricade was _sure_ that he didn’t want to know what Prowl had said when Jazz spluttered and stalked into the room. “One day, Prowl, you’re gonna regret it . . .”

“I’m sure,” the calm reply drifted into the room.

Barricade sighed and turned his back to his Caretaker. “I hate not being independent.”

“I know, ma mechlin’, I know. Prowler and I feel the same way, but this kinda stuff reminds us that we need each other in dis world. I ain’ gonna be able to survive without th’ help of ma friends’n’family.”

“So I’ll always need help?”

“Cleanin’? Definitely. Ain’ no two ways ’round it. An’ in yo’ everyday life? Yeah. You’ll need other mechs’n’femmes around ya. An’ you won’t be the only one who needs help. _They’ll ___need yo’ help as well.”

“Like who?”

“Mm. Like Sunny ’n’ Siders. Blue. Maybe even Bee. Who knows?” Careful around the sensory wings, he got to finalizing the last bit of scrubbing done, then began drying his Youngling off with swift movements.

The transmission came without warning.

_:Prowl, Jazz! Kaon’s rebelling!:_

_:Why are you telling **us** , Megs?: _Prowl demanded, darting into the room and looking at Jazz, gaze focused and intense. _:Why not our Chief?:_

_:Because he’s dead. He was part of the Enforcers who responded to the initial uprising with me not two joors ago. You two are tied for the next-highest in rank. I need backup!:_

Cursing out loud simultaneously, the mates sagged, staring at each other. This mean that they were in charge of their Enforcer station as interim joint Chiefs. Barricade stared at his Caretakers in shock, unable to comprehend what was going on, even though he could detect encrypted transmissions.

_:What of the graduation ceremonies for the kids?:_ Jazz asked softly.

_:Postponed. A lot of those kids have Guard and Enforcer parents. We’re calling everyone in.:_ Megatron was clearly on the move.

_:Give us the rendezvous position, and we’ll be there ASAP,:_ Prowl stated firmly, no-nonsense in his attitude. He sighed and rubbed at his face. “Barricade, everything’s been postponed. There’s trouble in Kaon again.”

“You’re . . . you’re going to go fight?”

“I sure as the Pit hope not,” Prowl murmured, kneeling down and taking the small hands in his own. “And I will do everything I can to come back to you. But I need to go.”

“What do you need me to do?”

The Caretakers looked at each other with a smile at how willing their child was to want to be in action, even if he was still relatively fresh in his Youngling form. Jazz had just the answer. “Stay with Bluestreak, Bumblebee and the Twins in the Citadel. They’re going to be pretty upset.”

“Will Terratron be there?”

“I think so,” Prowl stated, standing. _:Jazz, I’ll take him in to the Citadel. You’re best with getting people to listen to commands. Get them mobilized and keep me fed with the battle updates. Get me patched in with Megatron, Smokescreen and Springer. Those three will be on opposite sides of the battlefront. I’ll be sending orders along and suggestions on how best to combat the mechs.:_

_:On it. Be safe.:_

_:You too,:_ Prowl whispered, his fingertips touching his mate’s before Jazz embraced Barricade with a reassuring whisper, then left the room. Prowl watched him go, then indicated that the mechling follow him. They weren’t that far from the Citadel to begin with, needing to be living that close thanks to the fact that they had close ties to many of the mechs and femmes that resided there. “Remember everything that I taught you.”

“Do you think that you and Jazz will be hurt?” Barricade asked softly.

“No. But I’m planning for the worst. I don’t know what the result of this conflict will be.”

“Promise me you and Jazz will live!” the little black and white Sparkling hissed, clearly distressed.

Kneeling to embrace his child, Prowl felt his doorwings droop. “I will promise to do _everything_ in my power to keep us alive. I love you, my strong mechling. And I will fight to protect everyone, you most of all, and to return to you.”

“Jazz too?”

“Jazz too.”

“Okay.”

Prowl walked into the training room, which was positively _bristling_ with Guards. In the center of the room stood Optimus, Elita, Sentinel, Terratron, and a handful of the Younglings and Sparklings of the Guards who were with Megatron in his advance team. Terratron nodded and said, “Everyone off the mats! I have a treat for the kids.” His voice was kind, distracting the children from their fear.

Prowl looked to the Twins, who were standing on either side of Bluestreak, watching him expectantly with a challenge in their optics. He nodded to them. “Cade, Blue, Sunny, Sides, I expect the four of you to help keep the littlest ones safe. This is your duty until Smokescreen, Jazz and I return. Keep them safe, and make sure that you help the adults in any way that they say how to. By the time I return, I feel that you four will have earned your Adult frames through this situation.”

Four chirped affirmatives, and he brushed his hand one final time over his Youngling’s helm before straightening his back and walking out of the room, resolve firming.

He would not die in the coming orns. He _would_ see his Barricade in an Adult frame.

.o.

The screams of the injured were polluting his sensors as Prowl onlined after a blast had knocked him into a wall. Shaking his helm and assessing damage, he looked around for Smokescreen. Finding the other doorwinger, he pulled his friend to his feet, shaking him until he came online again. “Diversion! We need a diversion!”

“I don’t have the setup for one right now! Not for the scale you want it on! Everything was off-lined in the blast!” Smokescreen hissed. But a young scout-class Enforcer grabbed Prowl’s ankle. 

Looking down, he saw the green armored mech using his other hand to actively clamp the leaking energon lines to where legs once had been. “Hound, sir. I can give you holograms.”

“I need a hologram of Prime, running away from this location and away from Iacon. Maybe deeper into Kaon. _Something!_ ” Prowl hissed, crouching to help stop the leaking of fluids, reestablishing contact with Jazz and several other mechs with an update on his post’s condition and what his plan was. “Anything to get them to divert away from here so that we can evac wounded.” He pulled out one of several cubes, poured half into an empty cube, and handed it off, sealing the cube and subspacing it again.

“You got it” He grinned while medics started to pour in. He downed the half-cube in two gulps, tossing the empty cube back to Prowl. “Get me to a window so I can see what I’m doing.”

And Optimus Prime, looking battered and in shock, stumbled out of the building, shaking his head and looking around blearily before darting away in what seemed to be a dazed rush. Scores of Kaon mechs darted after the hologram, giving Prowl’s station a corridor that they could escape from. He waited with Hound until the mech sighed. “Hardlight hologram deactivated, ‘holed up’ in an old vault that I locked in behind him.”

“Good!” Picking Hound up with Smokescreen, they carried him out of the building at a half-run. He winced, shutting his vocal processor off so he wasn’t crying out with pain as they retreated, falling back behind the lines, bringing Hound to a transport that would get him back to his usual station on the other side of Cybertron for repair and recovery. Prowl rested his hand on the scout’s shoulder. “You did _amazing_ out there. Thank you.”

“Heh . . . can’t let ’em have _all_ the fun, sir.”

“True. Speedy recovery, Hound.”

“Thank you, sir. Best of luck.”

Giving Hound one last firm pat on the shoulder, Prowl stood and walked to the command room, sighing and shaking his head, feeling his processors buzzing after that ordeal. He entered to see Megatron and Jazz pouring over maps of current Kaon insurrectionist movements versus the combined efforts of Guard and Enforcer. Jazz took one look at his mate and pointed to a chair. “Energon. Now.”

The little mech was worried the moment that Prowl did as he was told without arguing. Jazz glanced up at Megatron, then turned from the table and walked to his mate, letting one of the other Chiefs take up his place to see if they could get another angle on their situation. _:Prowler.:_

_:I’m fine.:_

_:Turn around. Lemme start some repairs on your back.:_

Sighing, he did so leaning elbows on his knees while Jazz pulled out a first aid kit and began to do some minor patching and welding to keep Prowl’s doorwings functioning. _:I’m glad you got the reinforced doorwings.:_

_:Me too. Smelter’s fire, my processors ache.:_

_:We haven’t recharged in three orns.:_

_:I’m feeling it.:_

“Prowl, Jazz,” Megatron growled. “You’re off-duty. Go recharge.”

“You’ll need my mind—”

“Awake, Prowl. I need your processors at peak functioning capability. I’ll wake you up if we need you in the next ten joors. Neither of you have recharged since you came here.” Megatron’s face was full of sympathy. “Get _far_ back behind the lines, get a medic, and get recharge.”

“Yessir,” Prowl murmured, pulling out a cube and sipping at it, getting half down before he offered some to his mate. Jazz took two mouthfuls before handing it back for Prowl to finish off. They transformed, looking much the worse for wear, and got rolling to the medic’s building safely, transforming again to be seen to, then sent off to a local hotel to recharge. Prowl all but tumbled face-down onto the berth, feeling Jazz kneel over his hips, pressing his battered face against Prowl’s spine, right between his doorwings. “I thought I had lost you.”

Sighing, the Praxian whispered, “I’m sorry.” He felt clever, delicate hands that were ill-designed for combat start to wander over the dented but familiar plating of his doorwings, finding the segments and lines that brought not just peace and calm, but pleasure. Relaxing, the Praxian lowered his doorwings so that they rested as limply as possible, looking over his shoulder at his mate, whose frame vibrated with a silent keen. “Jazz . . .”

“I . . . I don’t wanna lose you, Prowler.”

Prowl sighed, and whispered, “I need you to do something for me. But I’ll also need you to reverse it before I recharge.”

“What?”

Lifting armor out of the way and arching his back, Prowl murmured, “You know my frame. I . . . I need to _feel_ tonight. I need emotions. I need to process them. I was scared. I couldn’t feel it.”

Jazz dug his hand into the frame and innards of his mech, finding the one plug that could mean _everything_ between himself and his lover. That one plug that he had only seen off _once_ , with the first few orns of their precious Barricade coming to be with them, disengaging the battle computer completely and pulling his hand free. The change was instant. Prowl’s face crumpled into despair, and he buried his head in his arms, then reached back and grabbed one of Jazz’s hands, pulling him forward and down, against him for an embrace as they shuddered with soft keens together at all the close calls of the prior three orns of close-contact battle.

Almost a half-joor later, they were calm, shaking, trembling with exhaustion of mind, emotions, and body, from the last several orns but Prowl shook his head at Jazz’s whisper of wanting recharge. “Tomorrow brings more battles. Please . . . I need you tonight. I need you.”

A cord clicked into place, and Prowl blinked at Jazz, whose hand rested over the connected ports between them, processors beginning to align, emotions slowly melding between them. And Prowl pulled his mate into an exhausted embrace, nosing at faceplates and whispering along the hardline connection and through the air of his love, his devotion. He timidly kissed Jazz.

Jazz kissed his mate back explosively, the fire to Prowl’s ice, whirlwind to his stillness.

And as always, Prowl found himself caught up for the ride, grinning and slowly thawing to let his emotions and processors dance and give as fiercely as his precious, loving, patient mech was able to.

.o.

The summons came too soon. Thankfully, they had six joors of recharge, which was far more than enough. Unfortunately, the news of what they were waking to wasn’t anything they had ever dreamed of.

_:Prowl, Jazz . . . Shockwave has Megatron.:_

They shot awake, moving at the same time before realizing that they were still connected by interface cables. Yelping, hissing at the pain of wrenched cables, they disentangled themselves, stowed everything away, and started running out of the room. Prowl tossed a cube of energon to Jazz on the way to the elevator, downing one and shaking his head and gagging at the nutrients that were in it. “Ugh!”

That was when Jazz remembered what he forgot to do the night before. “Prowl! Open up!”

“What?” he asked, then immediately blanched and repeated the maneuver to have his battle computer integrated with the rest of his system. He held onto Jazz as vertigo hit, only to have the smaller mech physically pick him up around his waist and walk with him into the elevator. “Ugh. Next time, I’m doing that _lying down_.”

“Everythin’ good?”

“Nmph. Yes. Battle computer is analyzing last night . . . and giving me the results saying that I shouldn’t have unplugged it. That, and that my emotions are . . . unnecessary. I wholeheartedly _disagree_.” With a sigh, he reached out and pulled Jazz into an embrace. “Thank you.”

“Welcome.” And then they dove into business mode. _:Jazz to Dreadknot, whaddya **mean** , ‘Shockwave has Megatron?’:_

_:Battle last night, while you two were recharging. Lord Megatron saw Shockwave, and went after him. Of course it was a trap, but nobody could convince him otherwise.:_

_:So where does that leave us?:_ Prowl asked, storming out through the door with a stream of other Enforcers who had been recalled. He noticed how they parted for him and Jazz, recognizing their temporary rank as higher than theirs. It was like an elaborate dance, albeit one that could turn from peaceful to deadly within nanocycles. They were trained warriors, despite the peaceful façade of “Enforcer of the Law.” They were no different than Guards.

_:Leaves us leaderless, unless Optimus comes out here.:_

_:I won’t let him come to the battlefront. They want our leaders for some reason, and I will not let them both be taken.:_

_:Yes, sir.:_

_:You’re higher in rank.:_

_:I . . . lack your abilities, Prowl. You’re out-ranked by seven mechs out here, and none of **us** want to take responsibility or leadership of this crew.:_

_:Why.:_

_:Because, sir, you’re the best qualified, and you have the audio of the Lord Protectorate and the Prime. You know them and their strategies best.:_

Silent for a moment, Prowl looked to Jazz, who nodded once. He’d follow Prowl’s lead, and he’d willingly play runner-up for leadership. Nodding, Prowl replied to Dreadknot, _:Very well. Have the troops been informed?:_

_:Word of mouth, sir. Those who were with Megatron at the time, or saw it, told the others. We’re having trouble controlling them.:_

Loose cannons.

Prowl thought on this for a long moment, transforming and hearing the thunderous echo of his lead cueing the other Enforcers and Guards. It was a heady moment, and one he would later find out would spread through Cybertron as a video in the documentation of this part in their history. He ran through battle simulations, tactics and strategies running through his mind. But there was nothing with a success rate of over fifty percent with the information he had now. _:I need saboteurs first. Then we aim angry troops once we have further intel.:_

_:I volunteer,:_ Jazz stated firmly.

_:Denied. I need your people-organization skills with me until we have a plan finalized.:_

_:I’m the best in our quadrant of the world, Prowl. I’m doing it.:_

_:I will discuss this in private with you **later** , Jazz. Not over public com-frequencies.:_

_:Prowler, I’m goin’ in.:_

Growling out loud and over the coms, Prowl hissed, _:You’re small, but you’re clearly not Kaon in build! I will not have you sneak into somewhere that you’ll stick out like a Youngling in a field of petrorabbits! I will **not** put you in that danger!:_

_:Guys. Tone down the lover’s spat.:_

_:Sadly, it ain’t a lover’s spat. This is jus’ Prowl as he normally is,:_ Jazz grumbled. Even his driving was sulky as he continued. _:He won’t sacrifice anyone. And I’m pushing at that conviction t’ prove to everyone listening right now that he **won’t** make a wrong decision, an’ he won’t knowingly sacrifice anyone’s Spark.:_

_:Jazz.:_

_:Yes, Prowl?:_

_:You and I are still having a talk later. Privately.:_

_:Gotcha. Sorry, love.:_

_:Not talking about it right now. But run through your contacts. I need someone who has either a Kaon-similar build, or can blend in, be invisible.:_

_:I know just the mech. He’ll meet us at the command center.:_

Prowl chirped an affirmative, still running through numbers and situations until they arrived at the battlefront, which was two lines of mechs glaring at each other, bristling and hurling insults back and forth, but nobody moved. Prowl made sure that the Enforcers would _not_ be the aggressors, then entered to find himself in a room full of officers. “I want to send in one, maybe three mechs to scout and find Megatron. Jazz said that he had one meeting us here. Once we know what they’re doing, and where they’ve put the Lord Protector, _then_ we’ll organize the rest of the battle. We’re at a stalemate until that point.”

He flicked his doorwings at a passing breeze, then turned sharply with energon knives flinging out of his wrists and heating, hissing with their heat. The officers didn’t move, but were watching Prowl carefully, in shock. Jazz was backing away, looking for what had set Prowl off. He flung his wings out, extending them briefly to give him a broader range of scanning, then darted forward and two steps to the left, his left knife folding away while his fist collided with something that _wasn’t there_. He grabbed at the air, feeling neck cabling. Snarling, he put his right knife close to where the optics normally would be.

That triggered the mech to drop the cloak. Prowl didn’t move, but he heard Jazz yell, “ _Mirage!_ What the _slag_ have I told you?!”

“To never try to sneak up on Prowl,” the unfamiliar mech said with a small smirk, but at whose expense, it wasn’t openly obvious.

“Primus, mech, he coulda killed ya, and _then_ where would we have been?”

“This is your mech that you want me to send into Kaon?” Prowl asked, drawing away and sheathing his right blade, crossing arms over his chest while he flicked his doorwings and settled himself.

“Yeah. Mirage.”

“Apt name. Noble, aren’t you?” he indicated the rare golden optics. “Why are you working for the Enforcers?”

“Guard, actually. The Towers are . . . boring after so many vorns of forced events and manners.”

Prowl sized him up again. “Who designed your systems?”

“Wheeljack, about seventy vorns ago. It was a complete refit from my prior Adult frame.”

That made him quite a bit older than Prowl, not that he’d let anyone know that. “Very well. You feel that you are capable of getting into Kaon, finding where they’re holding Megatron and what conditions he’s in and getting out, all without getting caught?”

“It’s possible. I haven’t done something on this scale before, but it’s possible. So long as they don’t have Praxians, I’m sure that I’ll be unnoticeable.”

“Weaponry?”

“Shivs, garrote, various other weapons that don’t make noise and won’t get me caught.”

Prowl grinned, shocking many of those in the room who have never seen him as anything other than stoic and distant. “You’re just the mech I was hoping to find. Jazz, I owe you.”

“You can make it up to me tonight.”

“Not now, Sparklove. Business first.” He openly chuckled at the reactions he was getting from the other Chiefs. “Do you think that I’m as emotionless as my Sparked Caretaker? Primus. Let’s get to business. I want Mirage in and out of there in a three-joor window . . .”

.o.

Jazz came to, looking up at the ceiling in a medical ward. Groaning, he pulled his hand up to touch his face . . . and froze.

It wasn’t there. His hand _wasn’t there_.

“Primus, it wasn’t a nightmare.”

The chirped word for “creator” whispered by his audio, and he looked to his right, seeing Barricade crawling up onto the berth, not caring that he was a Youngling and supposed to be tough. He was keening and pressing himself closer to Jazz’s Spark, just like he would when he was a Sparkling. Wrapping his damaged arm around his child, the Enforcer looked over the rest of his frame, or what was left of it.

“Cade? Cade, where’s Prowl?”

“Hurt worse than you.”

“Smelter’s rod . . . where is he?”

“Intensive Care . . . I can’t go in there. Ratchet’s with him.”

Gusting air out of his vents and glad that his sensory net was numbed, he looked to his left arm, seeing that there was nothing from the elbow down. Both of his legs were there, but scrapped to oblivion and back. He’d need them rebuilt from scratch. “How are we still alive?”

“Medics said that you and Prowl had been found curled around each other, sparks sheltered by the rest of your frames. His entire back is gone, with his battle computer. His legs were blown off. You got everyone out of the command center before it was hit, but you two were the last ones out . . . and you were buried for two orns in the rubble.”

“Primus above, Cade, I’m sorry. We tried not to get hurt.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the small voice said, weary with emotional strain. “You’re alive. Prowl’s alive. That’s what matters. I don’t want to lose either of you. Bluestreak won’t move from in front of the ICU door unless he’s in recharge and Smokescreen brings him to a berth. Twins haven’t left him alone, and are taking shifts with me and him, switching off from time to time so that we have someone to talk to.”

“Sunny . . . is being kind?”

“Yeah. He remembers what it’s like to lose people he loves. He doesn’t want us as alone as he and Sides were.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” Looking up at his Caretaker, he whispered, “Can . . . can I have the Creator Bond with you when you’re better? I could find Prowl because he and I share the Bond. They had to ask me to help find him . . . and you. I didn’t know if you were alive or dead.”

Holding him closer, Jazz strained his neck to press his lips against the small helm before settling back. “Of course. Anythin’ for ma mechlin’. Anythin’.”

“Barricade, visiting hours are over,” a kind voice said.

Jazz looked up at the femme that stood over his berth, blinking in shock once. “Well, slag me! Firestar!”

“Jazz?! Primus, what the _Pit_ happened to you?!”

“I’m still trying to figure that out. Look, I need ma Younglin’ with me tonight, okay?”

“Yes, of course. I didn’t even recognize you after all your upgrades!”

“An’ after bein’ blown half to slag, too, don’t deny it.”

She winced, checking his charts and his vitals before saying, “You heard about Prowl, then.”

The mech nodded, sighing. “Yeah. He’s in bad shape.”

“Ratchet’s personally operating on him now. Surgery will be out in a half-joor. But he’s stable, if in critical condition. His Spark-pulse is regular, and he’ll be back on his feet as soon as they’re reconstructed. Both of you took bad hits. Optimus Prime and Elita-One asked to be notified if there were changes in any of your conditions.”

“Any?” Jazz jumped on the word. That meant that more than one mech that they cared about was injured.

“Megatron . . . was tortured. We’re not sure why or the full details of the matter, but Terratron took up his old duties as interim Lord Protectorate until psychologists and medics are sure that Megatron’s functioning properly. You and Jazz are hailed as heroes of the Kaon Uprising.”

“Primus . . . last thing I need is more fame.”

Firestar chuckled and rested her hand upon his shoulder. “You’ll do just fine. Get some more rest or recharge. I’ll bring in some Energon for your little mech here in a moment. Thank you for being so diligent, Barricade; I’m sure that Prowl will tell you that he’s glad you kept Jazz company for the last few orns.”

“And the Twins?”

“And the Twins. They’ve been keeping everyone laughing while we get the injured repaired.”

“They been prankin’ everyone?” Jazz asked.

“Harmless, fun ones. We’re not sure how they wrote ‘Sentinel’s aft smells like old slag’ on Megatron’s ceiling, but the mech was laughing hard enough that he ruptured a hydraulic line. They’re disrespectful little slaggers, but they’re resourceful and doing what they can to keep morale up, and I’m grateful for it.” She pulled out an energon sweet for Barricade, smiling and brushing her hand over his helm. “And you’ve been giving them ideas.”

“If they could get into ICU, they’d leave a better message for Prowl to wake up to.”

“Have you seen Ratchet throwing a fit?”

“Yeah. He’s not as scary as Prime. When Optimus is mad, it feels like Primus is about to lay a personal smackdown on your aft.”

“Good point. Hm.” She grinned to Jazz. “Want to help plot?”

“If it ruffles Ratchet’s armor, I’m all for it.”

Three orns later, it happened. Jazz was hobbling around using crutches while he legs had been welded and reinforced to support his weight, but he had no feeling and no flexibility in them. New limbs were being produced for him, legs and a rebuild of his arms, at least. He wasn’t sure what to do about his hands, but he was learning that an artist’s hands left him at a disadvantage as a warrior. He had them turn off all pain sensors around where his hand was on his right arm, and where his entire lower arm had been on his left, fitting them into specially-molded crutches that Firestar had created for him. He waited outside of ICU at least for two joors an orn with the Twins, Barricade and Bluestreak, keeping them company while other people were in the hall, and plotting with them when they were alone.

When it happened, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker shot out of the ICU with wrenches whizzing by their heads, laughter following them all the way out from the medics and assistants. They skidded under the bench that Jazz was sitting under, breathless with laughter. Ratchet stormed out to the hallway, mouth open to chew out the kids when he saw Jazz sitting there calmly, even though his frame was still in crap condition. And the old mech melted and came apart, stumbling forward and into Jazz’s damaged arms, kneeling before him and whispering, “He won’t wake up.”

“Why do you think I had the twins provoke you into coming out here? Let me in to see my mate, Ratchet.”

“What if you can’t wake him?”

“What if I can?”

Ratchet stayed before the mate of his grown Youngling for a few long moments, needing to have this moment where he could break down a little. After his anger had worn off, he felt the Twins pressing themselves against his sides, embracing him. He was held together by their youth, by their love, and he sighed, nodding. “Right. Come on, then, Jazz. Kids, stay outside, and _I mean it_.”

They nodded, still grinning at their prank, then ran down the hall to greet a sleepy Bluestreak. Jazz was helped to his feet, and then followed Ratchet into the Intensive Care Unit. He was brought directly to see Prowl, who was flat on his back, doorless, with temporary struts keeping his weight from causing damage to the bared internal systems. Pausing at the door, Jazz sighed. “Oh, darlin’.” Walking closer to his mate, he whispered, “Dearspark, why’d you shield me?”

“He has more between his Spark and his back than you do. Doorwings. Secondary processor. More armor.” Ratchet rested his hand on Prowl’s remaining one, his gaze soft, pained.

Settling himself by his lover’s side, Jazz suppressed a groan at feeling his limbs creaking, suddenly feeling a lot more exhausted than he had in the hallway. He felt Ratchet’s hands helping him stay upright, pressing a small cube of medical-grade against his lips, helping him down it all with gentle words. “Easy now . . . there you go, Jazz. You can’t forget to fuel up while you’re recovering.”

“I know. Hard t’ refuel without hands, though,” he replied, sighing, his gaze locked upon his lover’s. “Can I stay here for a while?”

“If you need anything, I’ll be discussing matters with other medics. And if you need to recharge, let me know, and I’ll have a cot in there for you.”

“Won’t my physician have turbo-kits when he finds out?”

“Does he know that you’re practically my own Sparkling?”

“No.”

“Then let him.”

“You just want to have someone to unleash your frustration upon.”

“That, too.”

Chuckling, Jazz settled himself a bit more while in the chair, determined to wait out both his injuries and his mate’s. “And Barricade—”

“He’s been a great help,” Ratchet interrupted, “and he’s been staying with Wheeljack, Bluestreak, and the Twins since everyone’s been brought back here. Don’t worry; I’m not going to let the child of my child go untended.”

“Can he come see Prowl?”

“Is he mature enough and stable enough not to have night horrors?”

“Yes. He was with me when I woke up, so he’s already seen me out for the count and unresponsive.”

“Then I’ll go get him.” He had literally walked out, when he walked back in with a scruffed Youngling looking sullenly irritated. “Nevermind. Here he is. Little slagger takes after you both far too much.”

Jazz chuckled, but it was silenced by Barricade’s words. “I want to help you guys keep an optic on the uprising. It’s not over. And it won’t _ever_ be over. I’m not stupid, and I’m not about to let myself be caught up in something that I can’t be prepared for. Prowl’s taught me how to fight, how to take mechs down. I have a neutral, almost-Kaon Youngling frame and it won’t shock anyone if I go to a full Kaon frame later on. It’s a warrior’s frame.”

“What are you proposing that you do?” Jazz whispered.

“It’s why I want to have the Creator Bond with both of you, so you can _see_ that I’m not going to be stupid about this. I want to go into deep cover. Infiltrate. Be a mole. Feed you information.”

“While seemingly becoming one of them.”

“Which is why I’ll need your Sparks to help keep myself intact.”

“Good Primus above,” Ratchet whispered in shock.

“Jazz, please.”

The Caretaker sagged, sighing and looking up at where Prowl lay, his frame battered, his faceplates dented and cracked. “We’ll talk about this as a family. But first, come here. Let’s get that Bond in place before we all worry unnecessarily about this, right?” Smiling, the silver and black mech held broken arms open for his Youngling-in-frame, who cautiously climbed up into his lap.

Jazz opened the shielding over his Spark, murmuring, “I’ve wished to share this Bond with you for a long time, m’ mechlin’. You’ve been such a gift, a blessin’ from Primus, in my life, an’ I can’t imagine a life without ya.”

Face splitting into a bright smile, Barricade bit his lips, then found the subroutines that would open his chest to align his Spark with his Caretaker’s. When he onlined again, he felt the whisper of a new set of emotions against his, comforting him while a voice spoke soothlingly over his head. His vision swam into focus, and he looked up to see Jazz pressing his forehead against Prowl’s, who was online but unable to move. Fierce love echoed from Prowl’s Spark to his, and he scrambled up out of Jazz’s arms and onto the berth to wrap his arms carefully around Prowl’s neck as he sobbed his relief.

“Mm, I heard that you’ve proven yourself worthy of an Adult frame, Cade,” Prowl slurred, his voice showing how drugged he was with sedatives and extra pain-relievers. He never called Barricade by any other name unless he was in private.

“I’m glad that you’re awake!”

“Me too,” he whispered, smiling and whispering, “and I want you to know that while I do _not_ like your plan . . . I know that you want to help us. And you’re old enough to. You’re an Adult, and I feel your sincerity and your determination to do something to help keep Cybertron at peace. We will design your frame together, and we will help you in _every_ way that we know how.”

“Thank you,” Barricade whispered. “Thank you, Prowl. Thank you.”

Able to raise his head just enough to press a kiss to his child’s helm, Prowl murmured, “Need to recharge again . . . go cause trouble. Talk later.”

And the last thing he heard and saw before he slipped back into recharge was Barricade’s laugh and his bright, happy smile.

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Looks like this was another short Arc. Not all the questions I wanted to answer could be answered in these settings, but they won’t be forgotten. They’ve just been moved up an arc or two._

_Also, the next Arc will deal directly with the present-day instead of the Crusade Arc, which deals with the Great War and what had happened before the AllSpark was sent into space. As much as I’m enjoying writing their pasts, I’m hitting brick walls, and I have a LOT more ideas for the pre-ROTF and ROTF Arc that are screaming to be told. So I’m following where the muses lead, and not worrying about which arcs and which stories get told at what time._

_Song is: “Firedance” off of the Riverdance score by Bill Whelan._


	28. Interlude: Fireside 2 "Secrets"

Sam watched the starlight slowly turn into daylight as he listened to the telling of their past. He sighed and looked up at his Guardian, then over to the Twins and Bluestreak, who were watching him intently. “So . . . now I understand why you guys pretty much jumped down my throat. I’m sorry for being pretty blunt.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Ratchet said with a snort. “Considering how blunt they usually are, it’s good for them to have a taste of their own attitude.”

“Still, it was a bit brusque of me.” He paused, looking at Prowl and Jazz, seeing them as what they have always been to each other, not just the reunited mates that were about to go and do . . . whatever . . . with each other. There was enough teasing towards Optimus about how he and Elita were well-known for their trysts. Even Bumblebee had delivered some brilliant zingers towards his Creator about his relationship with the femme. “But I have a question, and you said I could ask questions when you were done for the night.”

Optimus smiled and nodded. “By all means.”

“You all pause when you say Bulwark’s name, right before it. That’s really not his name, is it. It’s like you’re code-naming someone and you’re not used to how it sounds.”

Prowl and Jazz shared a long look, then returned their gazes to Sam. The former Enforcer spoke. “Samuel, only those in high-command positions and those who were in contact with our child in his early Adult days know who he is. Can I entreat you to not pursue this issue?”

Wincing, shaking his head, Sam replied, “Something tells me that it’s important that I know.”

_:The boy is as stubborn as Ratchet and Ironhide combined, but a slagload more tactful. How a **child** is more tactful than those two, I have no slagging idea: _Jazz chuckled at the glares and snorts of indignation that he got from the two old mechs, finally giving in to the teen’s demands. “You can’t freak out.”

“I already know that he’s a Decepticon.”

“True.”

“Probably one that’s been on Earth for a while, but hasn’t been taken care of by NEST. Otherwise there’d be some sort of hell to pay.”

Prowl openly smirked. “He’s smart, and won’t be caught by your scanners or human attempts at assassination, and Optimus won’t sanction a hunt for him.”

“And he wasn’t killed in Mission City.”

“No, but I _did_ send him into a concrete pillar,” Optimus said smugly, settling back and looking up at the skies, watching the stars fade away, a grin on his face. “It gave him an ‘out’ of the battle and kept him down for a while.”

Bumblebee laughed and shook his head, and the human frowned before staring in shock at the snickering couple. “Oh my God. _Barricade_ is your _Sparkling?!_ ”

“Yep,” Jazz said proudly, sitting straighter and grinning broadly. “Ma mechlin’ is a talented kiddo. But I think he still thinks I’m . . . yanno, extinguished.” His demeanor fell, and he sighed. “That . . . the Creator Bond he and I shared was snapped when I died. It didn’t come back when _I_ came back, so it means that I’ll have to reestablish that Bond sometime. If he wants it.”

“He would have cut ties with Megatron because of what Megs did to you,” Prowl murmured. “He’s been loyal to who Megatron _was_ , and stayed because he wanted to keep us updated with how he progressed into his levels of insanity and megalomania. Most of the time, he was an honorable mech. But with Megatron dead . . . he’s probably keeping his head down so that he’s not found by anyone. Autobots, humans, _or_ Decepticons. Those loyal to Starscream won’t hesitate to try to either bribe or beat him into obeying the Air Commander.”

“So that insane cop . . . isn’t insane?” Looking up from his hands again, Sam asked, “Then why did he attack me? And why did he have Frenzy?”

“Frenzy’s a long story, one that best keeps until another night,” Ratchet replied, getting to his feet slowly. “And he attacked you because you had the information he needed to help finish the war. Our battle-cry, ‘till all are one’ refers to all factions becoming one culture again. He knew that with the glasses, _he_ would have information to give us what we needed to find.”

“The AllSpark.”

“Yes, Samuel. And he had to perform his duty, fulfill his orders. He _had_ to terrorize you, he _had_ to make it seem like he was going to beat the answers out of you. If he was hacked, or if Frenzy talked, he would have been in a Pit-load of trouble if they saw him going easy on you.” Prowl stood as well, helping Jazz to his feet. “Barricade is an Autobot. His Spark cries out to mine in despair of what he’s had to do, clings to mine as a steadying pillar in his life. Barricade will be here. He would not have hurt you. He would have intimidated you into obeying him, but your safety was never in any doubt.”

“When?”

“When what?”

“You said he was gonna be here. When is that?”

“I don’t know. But I wish for you to meet him as he truly is, Samuel. He is a staunch ally.”

Turning, Sam looked up at his Guardian. “So then . . . what did that mean for you when he was fighting you?”

Chuckling, Bumblebee perked up, truly interested in reassuring his charge about his childhood friend. “He tests me. I learn from Prowl, and I test myself against Barricade with what I’ve learned. He’s like an older brother, a mentor.”

“So, you’re not really fighting? Just sparring?”

“Did you _see_ what I did to him last time?” Grinning, the golden yellow scout bounced to his feet excitedly. “Sam, I _never_ get in a shot like that! Granted, he was a bit distracted, but it was still a damn good shot!”

“So you and he fight for real.”

“Always! It’s not a game. He helps me sharpen my battle skills. _That’s_ why I was able to defeat Jolt without much damage.”

“And,” Sideswipe said with a grin, “it’s because _we_ keep _Barricade_ on his toes. We know more than he does about brawling. Always have, always will. He has inherited talent and skill. But we continue to keep ourselves in shape and practicing against Prowl.”

Turning, he looked up at Bumblebee, needing to process that Insane Cop was really Undercover Autobot. It just . . . it made the Autobots look a lot more mortal and fallible and human and sneaky than he thought that they would be capable of. “Okay, next question. What’s your name _really_ mean?”

The scout settled himself down again, doorwings perked up and twitching excitedly. He released a short series of whirrs and chirps that dipped and flew musically before saying, “That’s it in Cybertronix. It’s . . . well . . .” Optics grinning helplessly, he looked to Optimus for help.

“When Bee onlined, his Spark _danced_. It reminded my Elita of creatures that she had seen while on an off-world vacation before she and I made our relationship official, long before I was Prime. They are close to what you call lightning bugs, but were mammalian in type. They glowed. They were playful, and were unafraid of our kind, often trailing behind us when we walked through their wilderness, which was a popular vacationing and . . . ‘honeymoon destination,’ I believe would be the right comparison. They were regarded as harmless, unless they were provoked. And once they were provoked, they would swarm to fight their enemy.” Optimus paused to gather aim for the second half of his explanation.

“Much like bees in general,” Bumblebee stated, summing up.

“Very much like bees. So we named him, _roughly_ translated into English, mind you, ‘fearless-dancing-light-hound.’ Each glyph of his name also has several sub-meanings, descriptive words that would help him learn to define himself as an individual later on in life.”

Sam nodded, understanding that. “Just like Chinese or Japanese characters.”

“Precisely. And Bumblebee, who spent four years on your planet, was able to help us find names that are similar to who we are that are also easy to remember for our human friends. Ironhide, though . . . he’s always been Ironhide.”

Snorting, the old mech grinned. “Fraggin’ right. ‘thick-armored-strong-Spark.’ Ratchet’s name’s five times as long translated into English, but is three glyphs long in Cybertronix.”

Ratchet barked a laugh. “I have _nothing_ on Mirage or Jazz.”

“So why did you choose your names?” Sam wondered.

“A ratchet is a tool used to repair. I am the same. My name is ‘the-tool-that-the-Maker-uses-to-repair-the-broken-Spark-and-broken-form’.”

“As proven by myself and the Twins,” Prowl murmured, “and everyone you have met, on the physical level. Translated, my name means ‘prowler-of-the-darkest-night’.”

Sam frowned. “And you’re an Autobot?”

“It’s another reference,” Jazz explained with a grin. “And ‘prowler’ and ‘watcher’ are very similar words in our language. It’s a bit tough to differentiate between the two, and I’d often nickname Prowl one or the other. Me? I chose the easy word. Jazz.”

“Primus, here we go,” Prowl sighed, earning a light pout from his mate for his words. He chuckled, shrugging doorwings.

“Right. ‘Spirited-Spark-of-bright-love-and-singing-joy.’ I figure that jazz is the best music out there, smooth and rich, spirited and full of love, joy and spirited nature incarnate. So I went with it.” He grinned, settling back against a tree with a chuckle. “Now for the Twins . . .”

“We chose our names, after we were orphaned,” Sideswipe said with a grin. “Our first names were too similar in nature, which we _clearly_ weren’t.” He smiled at his grumbling brother, reaching back to rest his hand upon the mech’s helm. “Chill. I won’t say them.”

“They were _ugly_ names.”

“I agree. Which is why Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are two of the best names in any language that we translate them into.” Turning back to look at Sam, he said, “Mine is ‘side-glancing-quick-handed,’ and Sunny’s is ‘flight-of-eternal-sun’.”

“Woah,” Sam whispered, honestly taken by the translations. “Well, that does describe you two much better than anything else, even your English names.”

“Right?” Sunstreaker said, leaning over his twin, pausing to smile at Iris who still lay in deep recharge. He melted all over again at the fact that he was given the chance to raise a Sparkling of his own. After the AllSpark was lost . . . it was a hope he had given up. Smiling at the femmeling in his brother’s arms, he felt Bluestreak shift a bit closer in recharge, still trying to heat-leech off of his form. “And my frame has always run warm, so just as a star is warm . . . I do hope that I can still level my own personality out a bit, growing into my name.” The benevolent expression on his face hardened into a glare as he pointed to Sam threateningly. “But if you _ever_ tell anyone that I said that, I’ll scare you out of half of your already-naturally-short life, kid.”

Sam held hands up in wordless submission, letting a natural silence fall between them as he thought of different questions.

“Blue cuddling up to you again?” Prowl asked with a very small smile hovering around his lips as he distracted Sunstreaker from the threat and gave Sam another moment to gather himself.

“As always.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Guys, I’m still getting used to you all, you know, being romantic with each other because you don’t have genders and all . . .”

“Translation,” Bumblebee said with a chuckle as he nudged Sam with a fingertip, “He can’t handle the truth.”

Jazz laughed at the cultural reference, reaching over the dying fire to fist-bump the yellow mech while Sam swatted his guardian’s leg with irritation. “Sorry, kiddo, but you’re in the know now. Means you gotta deal with us bein’ ourselves.”

“Great. Thanks.”

Optimus pinged everyone to be nice to the boy, shaking his head. “Did you have any other questions, Sam?”

And then Sam’s face went beet red and he huffed. “Well, it’s stupid, I think . . . probably me missing some giant cue or something.”

Nudging his charge again with an optic-grin, Bumblebee said, “I’ve asked you enough questions that seemed stupid because I didn’t understand your culture the way that _you_ do. Turnabout is fair play.”

He shuffled a bit again, then looked at his hands as he spoke. “So . . . what’s with the deal with Bonds? I mean, I understand that you have different ones for different roles, and that each of you have some sort of Bond with someone else, but why have them?”

“They make us stronger,” Optimus answered, smiling and resting a hand upon Sam’s shoulder, causing the teen to look up at the massive face. “They give us strengths, metaphysically, in order to keep going. I’m stronger because of Elita’s touch on my Spark, for example.”

“But Prowl and Jazz aren’t Bonded.”

“No,” Prowl replied. “You heard our reasons why.”

“You wouldn’t risk it because you didn’t want to put the other in danger if one of you was compromised.”

“Tactful way of putting it, boy, but yes.”

“So why didn’t you two Bond anyway? You couldn’t know whether or not it would have helped or hindered you in so many different situations because you don’t know what it would have given you. Elita probably was given more of a level-headed nature by Optimus, from what you guys have been saying, but she also influenced him to become a bit more steadfast on his beliefs and decisions. Their Bond helped him lead you guys.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, blanket still draped over his shoulders, Sam asked, “Why didn’t _you two_ risk it?”

Prowl turned to look at Jazz, who sighed and said, “Kid, do you know how long I’ve been tryin’ to use that argument with Prowl?” He reached over and hit his mate’s shoulder firmly, causing the armor to creak precariously. “An’ he _never listened_?”

“Well, not like either of you are on the active-duty list for a while.”

“Samuel, I would advise you not to stick your nose in any deeper than it’s gone,” Prowl said with his seemingly-infinite patience finally reaching its limit.

“Fine. I’ll take up where he’s left off,” Sideswipe said with a grin. “Sunny’s plagued you since was assigned to you, so . . .”

“Sideswipe. I will put your face through three oak trees in quick succession.”

“What? Don’t tell me that your words to Sunstreaker back on the boat were said theoretically!”

“We are _not_ having this discussion in public, and we are _not_ having it in front of an impressionable young human male!”

“Hate to break it to you, but I’ve been mentally scarred since I was nine and walked in on my parents doing the deed. I highly doubt that alien robot marriage ceremonies and whatever is gonna make my stomach turn any more than _that_ did.” Picking up the now-lukewarm thermos of coffee, he drained the last of it and sealed it back up. “I think you’re outnumbered, Prowl. That’s all I’m gonna say.”

“Next. Question.” The SIC was not happy with his private affairs made public, and that brat was just as annoying as the Twins combined back on Cybertron.

“How come you transform at different speeds when you need to? Why not one standard fast transform?” Sam asked, wanting to have asked this for quite a while now. He took up a seat on Bumblebee’s knee.

Everyone deferred to Ratchet, who chuckled. “For us, it’s another motion, and simply that. It’s another way of expressing ourselves. So we can transform in different ways, as you saw when we first met you.”

“Jazz danced,” Sam said with a grin.

“Hell ya, li’l bitch. Yo’ kiddin’? Do everythin’ in style!”

Everyone grinned at the small mech’s attitude. Prowl even cracked a grin, which _still_ shocked Sam after getting to know the mech as a rather stoic personality. “So . . .”

“A too-quick transformation can damage parts where they make contact while in the motions of unfolding. Auto-repair can fix that damage if it’s only once in a while that we transform in a hurry, but if it’s always a snap transformation, metals wear down. Battle is the only time we’ll transform in a hurry. A particularly slow transformation is best described as ‘stretching,’ giving us time to push the parts out where they have to be.”

“Like when Optimus transformed that first time.”

“Correct. He was also learning a new form and the details of a new transformation sequence. Even then, he rushed through that a little.”

Sam was bundled along shortly after that, yawning wide enough that his jaw was clicking, to pack up and get ready for the drive back to his home. He was given a hero’s send-off, with the Sparklings all crowding him for hugs and for wishing him a safe journey and when would he be coming back to visit them, because he was fun to play with!

He gave each of the younger ones an embrace, and for Iris, he merely reached his hand up and out, gaining her trust for just a moment so that her fingertips brushed his. Hudson tackled his midsection with a giggle, then darted up Prowl’s frame with agile movements that were clearly derived from Jazz’s own body language. Turning, Sam grinned to Faust, holding his hand out as he would to someone his own age or older. “Thank you for having me stay here, Faust. It was a lot of fun.”

Understanding the gesture for what it was, Faust grinned and shook Sam’s hand. “Thank you for coming.”

“And you’d _best_ come again soon!” Dana said, bundling both her Sparkling and the teenage boy into a warm embrace.

Turning towards the road with his Guardian, Sam was surprised when Prowl walked with them, Hudson distracted by a paperback book on his shoulder. “Bumblebee, next time you come, I would like some time to review where you are on your sets.”

“It would be my honor, master.” Smiling with his optics, he looked down at Sam. “But I think that this ruffian would like to see how we fight with martial arts. Take a look into Shaolin Gung-Fu and Okinawan Karate, as well as Capoiera, for a starter of understanding human martial arts.”

“I will do that.”

“Prowl? Sir, may I ask one more question?” Sam shifted the bag on his shoulder.

Nodding, the SIC smiled even that little bit. “Absolutely.”

“Why did you and Jazz let Barricade go undercover, when you know that it would only hurt him, and hurt both of you?”

The smile turned sad, and Prowl murmured, “When you’re a parent, Sam, you will understand this. When your child reaches adulthood, there is nothing you can do but to encourage them along the path of their choosing. Barricade was able to tell, even with a Youngling processor, that the undercurrents of our political atmosphere was taking a turn, and not for the better. When I had a new battle computer installed, after the initial Kaon uprising, and when he and I brainstormed over strategies with Optimus, Jazz, and Ratchet, we found that no matter what, there was a greater chance of success with an undercover agent.”

“And the Bonds between Sparks can’t be hacked.”

“That is a correct assumption.”

“Wow. Not to sound accusing, but when you guys want to play an underhanded move, you _really_ play it underhanded.”

“War is not good against evil, Samuel. War is always trying to balance a lesser evil against a greater evil. There are only shades of grey.”

Nodding, the teen understood this after the Mission City battle and having an Autobot park in his garage for the last year. “War sucks.”

“Mm. But you have school in the morning, and I do not wish for you to be late returning home. I will see you again, Samuel. Safe travels, Bumblebee.”

Chirping, Bee transformed and opened his door for his charge to pile in. “So . . . what do you think of our culture now?”

“I think that you were right in saying that humans are very, very much like you guys, just younger and farther back in our culture than Transformers.”

“Mm.”

“And while I want to learn more,” he said, then paused to yawn again, “I’m beat.”

“Right. I’m driving. Move over to the passenger seat. I know you don’t like holoforms, but I’d feel better with you sleeping and me looking like someone’s driving.”

“They feel fake.”

“Robots in disguise, yes? Means that sometimes, we have to use the disguise of a human.”

Grumbling, Sam shut his eyes and settled into Bee’s passenger seat with the blanket that Dana had insisted he take with him. “Yeah, but damn.”

“Go to sleep, Sam,” the Camaro chuckled.

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** I hate allergies. That’s one reason why this took forever to be written. Sorry for the wall of text below._

_Not all of the questions were answered, but I got a lot of them out there! Phew! Plotbunnies are hopping around my heels from doing the whole Reader Interaction Time, which I’m really glad that you all took on! A lot of you had the same questions, which surrounded three specific individuals: Barricade, Megatron and Shockwave. I have to do some research on Shockwave as a result, but right now, we’re moving into the span of time within 6 months of when “Revenge of the Fallen” takes place._

_And I have two or three mechs from the two arcs revolving around their past that are hovering over my shoulder. They’re looming. I swear. And what they’re demanding will be hilarious. And it’ll cause Lennox some AWESOME logistical headaches._

_Song is: “Secrets” by Mike Oldfield. It’s best listened to when attached to “Far Above the Clouds,” which is the next chapter title, and which really fits well with the chapter that has been in such HIGH demand. Bad pun. Sorry._

_Up next: Prowl . . . and what he went through when he found out that Jazz died._


	29. Revenge Arc 1: Far Above The Clouds

_**Author’s Note:** Because I keep forgetting to mention this, and Prowl names a pretty high number. I’m been rounding with a few of them, and have one definite answer because of how it works out. Because I don’t read the TF comics, I’ve taken liberties and now I’m paying for it. So here you go._

_Breem = 8 minutes_  
Joor = 8 breems, just over 1 Earth hour (64 minutes)  
Orn =1 lunar day, 28.125 joors; (30 Earth hours)  
Deca-orn = 10 orns (10 lunar days)  
Vorn = 1 lunar year; 30 deca-orns (300 orns)  
Decavorn =10 vorns; 300 deca-orns (3000 orns) 

.o.

Prowl was a proud mech, some said. Others called him emotionless. Arrogant. Haughty. Incapable of happiness. Incapable of showing any form of emotion, even anger.

Most heard these words from Sunstreaker or Sideswipe.

None heard Prowl himself conspiring with those two in the early days of the Great War to make sure that everyone _knew_ that he was emotionless and without any sort of emotional vise whatsoever. It made people less likely to try to buy him off or buy their way into his good graces. Each mech on the command team had made themselves untouchable for a reason. Optimus, while dangerous on the battlefield and could cuss out the best of Decepticons, was noble, philosophical, and all but Primus’ right hand. Ratchet had his (admittedly honest) anger issues. Jazz was a party mech that nobody really took seriously until they found him in the training rooms testing himself against Prowl. Ironhide was all about his cannons and his Sparkmate. (Which was true, but not to the extent that he made it seem to be.) Red Alert played up his paranoia, then laughed with the other officers about the newest insults aimed towards them all because of his strategic placement of cameras. Bumblebee, who had made his way up the ranks with shocking ease, had his youth, though mechs would often try to corrupt the bratling or take advantage of him.

That was usually when they found themselves waking up in the brig beside Sunstreaker, wondering what the Pit had hit them and how not to get themselves killed by the resident sociopath grinning down at them.

Speaking of the slagger, he was sitting in Prowl’s office. Well, sulking really. The slightly-larger SIC opened the door and stood in the doorway. “What _now_?”

“Threw Cliffjumper through a wall.”

“. . . you’re _slagging_ kidding me.”

“Nope. Made a pretty noise, too.”

If it wasn’t Sunny causing a ruckus, it was either Cliff or Hot Rod. Closing the door after himself and locking it, Prowl settled himself not behind his desk, but in the other “guest” chair, facing Sunstreaker, cutting straight to the chase. _:What’s the real problem, Sunny?:_ He was one of the few who could get away with the nickname, and only when Sunstreaker was feeling lenient.

_:I miss Sideswipe. Spark hurts. Cliff is just the icing on the cake. That mech doesn’t shut his vocal processor long enough to listen to what he’s saying.:_

Making a noise of understanding, Prowl replied, _:I wish we could do something about your problem, and if you had left yourself open and eligible for relationships, you could have had some comfort here.:_

_:Oh, go swallow the Smelter’s rod. I don’t want to frag Bluestreak without Sideswipe. He and I are good, but we need Sideswipe to make it an even match. We know this. We’re fine as friends and for keeping the berth warm for each other in the most innocent of ways, but . . .:_

_:I know. I know, Sunny. It’s not the same.:_

_:Yeah. I’m half of a whole. And I don’t know how Blue handles me on some days.:_

_:He loves you. Why do you think that I have as much patience with you as I do? I’ve mentored you, I understand what makes you tick. Did you two have a falling-out?:_

_:No. He’s mad because I threw Cliffy into a wall.:_

_:You said through it.:_

_:It dented.:_

Snorting a laugh, Prowl shook his head and reached over to rest his hand upon Sunstreaker’s helm, careful not to scratch the paint. “You vain bird. You know the drill. Off to the brig with you.”

“Datapad this time?”

“How much damage did Cliffjumper take?”

“Less than the last time I trounced him. Dented dorsal armoring, nothing that he can’t pop out himself.”

“Yeah, take a datapad. Bring some art back to me.”

“Thanks.” Standing, Sunstreaker looked down at the Autobot Second in Command, then rested his hand upon the mech’s shoulder. “Missing Jazz?”

“The moment I see him again, _Primus Himself_ couldn’t keep me from dragging him into the nearest place of privacy and interfacing him into stupidity. Once he’s sane again, _then_ I’ll Bond with him.” Prowl sighed, doorwings drooping. “I miss him, Sunny. I really miss him. It’s been _seven hundred decavorns_. That’s _too fragging_ long. Sideswipe’s been following them for barely a _quarter_ of that time.”

“Chin up. Prime’s transmission today had them with Bee again, who’s on some planet in the Sol system. I hate that we get delayed transmissions. It takes forever to get messages back and forth, which’ll stop with Siders getting to them. Don’t worry. You’ll get your chance under some luscious tropical, _organic_ setting. Waterfalls. Some pretty insects. Maybe an avian or five looking on jealously. _I_ would be looking on in jealousy. Jazz could be pretty. You’re too . . . _you_.”

Prowl finally gave in to the weary chuckles, feeling the twin’s hand patting his shoulder reassuringly. “Come lecture me again, if you need to.”

“Get outta here,” Prowl chuckled, moving behind his desk, only to find a cube of high grade waiting for him, hiding behind a pile of datapads. Sniffing it after Sunstreaker left, he found himself calming instantly. It was the spiced Iacon brew that they had used for their celebrations before the war started. Memories of what felt like a different life sprang to mind. He really did take his life for granted. He took recharging with his wonderful mate as a constant. He took the time spent with his Sparkling as a constant.

Neither were with him.

Shaking his head, he sipped the nostalgic cube, enjoying the taste of the blend. It was liquid comfort. Not even a Praxian high grade gave him this type of comfort. With a sigh, he had no sooner picked up a datapad when he heard a ruckus in the hallway. Sunstreaker yelling, cursing, but something felt _off_. It wasn’t the cursing of anger. There was . . . something else in his tone. 

Sighing, putting the datapad down, he walked out into the hallway to see the golden mech on his knees and clutching at his chest, right over his Spark. Prowl cursed and ran to his side, looking up to see Bluestreak and Smokescreen coming out of Smokey’s office, the door almost coming off of the hinges. Infantry mechs were looking down the hallway in shock.

_Nobody_ had ever seen Sunstreaker lose it like _this_. Primus, even _Prowl_ hadn’t seen Sunny like this since they were Younglings. Cliffjumper even looked shocked and confused. Prowl grabbed Sunstreaker’s shoulders. “Sunstreaker! Sunny, Primus damnit, _what is it_?!”

First Aid came rocketing through the crowd, his snarls truly like that of his mentor’s. “Move! _Move!_ Sunstreaker! What’s wrong?!” He came with Spark-dampeners, used to sometimes running into trouble with the twins and needing to give Sunstreaker some forced recharge while his Spark continually adjusted to the pain of separation.

Moaning wordlessly, he keened with loss, causing Bluestreak to fall to his knees beside the twin. “Sunny!”

There was nothing pulling him out of the state he was in. So Prowl pulled his fist back and rocketed it into Sunstreaker’s perfect cheek with a roar. “Snap out of it, frontliner! _What is it?!_ ”

Holding his cheek, staring in shock at the mech who _never_ struck him without holding back, even when they were training, Sunstreaker’s keen whispered into his voice as he spoke. “Prowl, I’m so sorry . . . I’m _so sorry_. . .”

“Sorry for _what_? You throwing Cliffjumper into a wall is _mild_ in comparison to what you used to do! What’s _wrong_?!”

“No . . . I’m sorry in advance. I’m so sorry . . . Sideswipe is on Earth, with Prime. A-arrived this morning. Sent me a message . . . Spark-code.” Choking over a keen, the golden twin looked up at his teacher, a mech he called brother. “Jazz is _dead_.”

Rocking back as if Prowl himself had just been hit full-force by his student, the mech hissed, “No. No, no, no.” He sent out a location ping, which would take all of a nanoclick for it to bounce and return off of Jazz’s Spark signature.

It returned with errors.

“Prime’s words. Sideswipe was weeping. Felt it. Spark _aches_. I’m so sorry, Prowl!”

“No!” Standing to try to run (where would he run _to_?), Prowl got three steps before feeling his knees give out and he fell to the deck, shaking. “No. No, he couldn’t . . .” He sent another ping, stronger, and it was returned with more errors. The errors that came when the ping found a frame . . . and no Spark.

“He’s _gone_.”

_“No!”_ Prowl roared, slamming his fists into the ground, hearing the keens starting to be taken up by mechs who knew Jazz. He felt arms wrap around him, and he struggled against them, but couldn’t get away from the mechs who held onto him as he felt a hard crash coming closer to his consciousness. “No, no, no, no, no, no, _no_ . . .”

“Aid! Get over here! He’s crashing!”

“Primus! Get me a port, _now_!”

“He’s sealed it shut!”

“Prowl, don’t crash!”

“Prowl! I’m so sorry! I’m _so sorry_!”

“I don’t care if you tear off that armor, _get me that port!_ ”

“No,” the mech whispered, before blessed oblivion took him.

.o.

Bluestreak watched as Smokescreen pulled his cord from the medical port in Prowl’s frame. He sighed and looked at the inert face before turning to First Aid, Bluestreak, and Sunstreaker, who wouldn’t even let his face be repaired until Prowl came back online. “He’s in there good and tight, but stable. His mind is intact, even if he’s grieving for Jazz. He tried pinging Jazz right after you told him, Sunny, so that’s why he crashed immediately. Found out the hard way that Jazz’s frame is without a Spark.”

“So his mind and his psychology is stable.”

“Well, as stable as a grieving mech can get. I have two solutions. One is to leave him in this state until we’re with Prime and we can give him some comfort by being close to Prime’s Spark. Primus knows that they were close friends before the war, and were all but brothers by the time we launched the AllSpark.” He ticked the other finger off. “The other option is something that I’m fielding to _you_ , Blue. We can bring him into our family, as a brother. It’ll keep him from suiciding.”

“He’s not likely to suicide, not with Barricade still sharing a Creation Bond with him,” First Aid stated bluntly, even if it was with a sneer for the wayward son of Enforcers. “That would keep him from suiciding over the loss of a Mate-Bond.”

Smokescreen raised an optic-ridge. “You know that he and Jazz were never Bonded, right?”

Scoffing, First Aid retorted, “That’s slag. They _had_ to be. They’ve always worked together like a Bonded couple.”

Sunstreaker sighed. “They were being cautious. They didn’t want the Cons to kill off two officers with one shot if they Bonded. It killed them, but they knew that if they took their relationship to that level, _one_ of them had to go into hiding, just like Elita and Chromia have.” He shook his head, bringing his hands up to cradle his helm. The twin whispered, “Prowl and Jazz have always just been that close. Their Sparks called to each other the moment they met. Ratchet was there. He told us about them.”

“So, essentially, we’re sitting on a problem that could cause us to lose two of the top three Autobot officers _anyway_.” Sighing, First Aid rubbed at his forehead. “Days like this I wish that Barricade hadn’t broken his Creators’ Sparks.”

Bluestreak and Sunstreaker shared a grimace that they knew would be misinterpreted by the medic. _They_ knew what had been going on with Cade, but they were sworn to secrecy. Hell, the only person who _didn’t_ know what Barricade was up to in this room was First Aid, and that was because as a psychologist, Smokescreen had tested that kid’s mind seven ways to Primus _and_ could have been _won’t_ help us with _what is_. Yes, Barricade had the skills to become an officer—”

“ _Did_ , according to intelligence. He was one of Megatron’s frontline officers, remember?”

“We _still_ kicked his aft!” Sunstreaker snarled, the expression on his face made more savage by the injury to his face. “But it _doesn’t matter_. Prowl’s . . . Prowl’s in pain. What can we do?”

“What do _you_ care? All you do is cause him trouble!” First Aid exploded, sweeping his hand to indicate the prone Autobot Second in Command. “All you do is make his job, his _function_ , harder to complete! If you’re not brawling, you’re brewing high grade! If you’re not brewing, you’re drunk off of your aft! If you’re not drunk, you’re brawling!”

“You forget yourself, First Aid,” the golden twin snarled menacingly, optics hard as he looked up at Ratchet’s apprentice. “When I’m doing none of the above, _I’m protecting his aft in battle_.” He paused, then stabbed a finger at their medic. “ _And_ yours. Why do you think I’m always close at hand to keep mechs off of you? I have standing orders to keep _your_ aft from being on your own berths.”

They glared at each other, silent in a standoff until a lanky mech glided into the room with more supplies from their stores. He paused, huffed, put the supplies down and grumbled, “Me Swoop see him Prowl on berth and no injuries. Why you First Aid and you Sunstreaker make big fight while him Prowl need rest? Him Prowl has _Spark-ache_. He no need hear _more_ pain.” Hands on hips, the apprentice (and all puns aside, almost-fledged) medic blinked his large, orange-gold optics and looked from one mech to another calmly.

Sunstreaker finally looked away from the officer, then muttered, “He’s going to need some comfort. I’m . . . I’m telling you, as an officer, First Aid, that I’m stockpiling Praxian high grade.” Turning away, he was about to leave when Swoop gently rested a hand upon his shoulder, turning him towards a berth so that they could treat his face.

“Why? Why _tell_ me this?” First Aid asked softly. This _wasn’t_ like Sunstreaker.

“Because he’s too much like Ratchet when he’s grieving. He’ll numb the pain _somehow_ and Praxian is the fastest way to numb a Praxian processor.”

Smokescreen nodded, his gaze upon Prowl’s, which was starting to show signs of him coming back to consciousness. “I’d rather him be drowning in high grade than allowing his battle computer to take over. He won’t process his emotions; won’t process the grief. At least for a while, we can handle the troops while he takes his time to process this. They know _now_ that he’s not as Sparkless as he’s made himself appear.”

“Me Swoop hear many Autobots say they trust him Prowl more _now_. Them Autobots see how deep him Prowl’s emotions run.” He looked up from making sure that the repair on Sunstreaker’s face was absolutely perfect. The Dinobot _knew_ how fussy the mech was when it came to appearances, and he picked up a handheld buffer to smooth out the weld, turning back to his work. “Them Autobots _trust_ him Prowl more, _see_ that him Prowl pushed emotions away to serve us Autobots to best abilities.”

Bluestreak sighed, for once not having the words for this situation up to this point. So he looked to his brother, then over to Prowl. “Let’s invite him into our family. He’s already been a brother to us, to me, since our Caretakers passed away. I want to be able to give him something to hold onto, after everything that he’s given _us_ to hold onto when we needed someone the most. I mean, it’s the only thing I know of that we can do, aside from letting him grieve, that will help him stay with us.”

Resting his hand on his little brother’s shoulder, Smokescreen nodded, walking over to the far side of the medical berth. “Best time to take care of that is now, between the crash and consciousness.” Sighing, he muttered, “It’s different than just claiming a brother Bond between two mechs. This is . . . going to be a lot more personal, because we’re drawing him in.”

_:And Barricade will feel us, too, through this, like in a true Bonded family.:_

Smokescreen nodded. “Are you sure?”

“He needs us.”

“Right.”

Bluestreak pulled the partition around the berth, effectively shutting everyone out and creating the semblance of privacy. Prowl _hated_ private things happening in public. Just before the partition closed completely, he looked up to see Sunstreaker watching him, intense blue optics locked upon his own. _:Blue . . . I’m proud of ya.:_

_:I wish that our personalities were more compatible, just you and me like this . . .:_

_:I’m only half of a whole, you know this.:_

_:You still going to the brig tonight?:_

_:You’ll have your hands full with Prowl. So yeah. I’ll do my brig time tonight.:_

_:Fine. Tomorrow night, I don’t care how it happens, you and I are interface ourselves off-line. I am fragging tired of seeing you and feeling my fans kick on without any way to satisfy my longing for you.:_

And just like that, Sunstreaker’s own cooling fans kicked on, much to his embarrassment and Swoop’s entertainment. Snickering, Bluestreak ducked into the semi-private room to face his brother’s amused-but-chastising look. Shrugging, he sighed and centered himself, looking at his brother, then down at the slowly-coming-back-to-consciousness Prowl. With a nod, they opened their brother-Bond right over Prowl’s Spark.

.o.

Sunstreaker lived up to his name as he darted through the halls, three orns after Prowl had returned to the land of the conscious. Cliffjumper had come to get him, and had volunteered to stay out the rest of his shift. The urgency of the little (but garishly) red mech’s voice was enough to have gotten Sunstreaker moving at any point in time, but when he heard “Prowl” and “locked in,” he was _gone_ from the monitor station. He’d process the situation and its implications later. Right now, he was honing in on the location ping from Bluestreak that had started up the moment he was in the hallways.

Skidding to a halt to change direction down the hallway of a T intersection, he narrowly avoided hitting the wall and running into First Aid, seeing Bluestreak ahead, his helm pressed to the door, Smokescreen beside him with his hand on the sniper’s shoulder. Slowing to a walk, Sunstreaker walked up to the door and scanned inside the room. Gusting air out of his vents, he pressed his hand to the door and whispered, “Open up, Prowl.”

_:I don’t want to.:_

Raising an optic ridge to Smokescreen at the Youngling-like reply, he got a motion indicating that Prowl had been drinking quite a bit. Well, slag. They’d been trying to keep him under surveillance while the mech drank himself into oblivion. First Aid tried to keep him from drinking, so he had his sober hours there. Kup drank him one-for-one and Prowl went under the table. Sunstreaker let himself get tipsy, but was careful not to get completely overcharged. Turning back to the door, Sunstreaker answered, “I can take the door out, and I’ll do brig time for destruction of Army property later. You’re not drinking alone.”

_:Frag off.:_

“Maybe later. C’mon, open it up, or I open it up _for_ you.”

The lock clicked off a quarter-breem later and Sunstreaker strode in with Bluestreak and Smokescreen, closing it in First Aid’s face and soundproofing the room with the activation of the lock. Prowl saw who entered with overcharged optics that were bright with emotions, then looked down at the cube in his hands. Three other cubes lay around his feet and by the smell of the brew, it was the Praxian stash. Thankfully, there was at least fifty more cubes hidden elsewhere. Unfortunately, Prowl also knew where they were all hidden.

Another unfortunate fact: Praxian high grade was the most potent brew that had been invented. Kaon took a close second, but the roughness of the Kaon brew was almost corrosive, so it didn’t count.

“You removed yourself from the active duty roster,” Smokey said, taking a seat on another storage crate, not moving to take the high grade from his new brother’s hand. Bluestreak took up a position on the floor halfway between the other two Praxians, leaving Sunstreaker to pick up an untouched cube and crack it open, taking a sip and humming appreciatively before settling himself on Prowl’s crate, right behind the mech, careful of the doorwings.

“Can you please let us be with you and mourn with you?” he asked softly, looking into the cube. “Yes, he was your mate, but he was our friend, our brother, too. He helped us become who we are, me and Blue.”

Prowl didn’t look at any of them for a long moment before he downed another long swig of the high grade. “I wish Cade was here . . .”

“Me too,” Bluestreak whispered. “I wish he had taken another assignment.”

“I miss his Spark.” Drawing his knees up and resting one arm around his legs, he rested his forehead against his knees, optics off as his vents stuttered in sobs. The cube dangled negligently from his other hand. “I miss my son. _Primus_ , I want _Jazz_.”

Bluestreak dared to reach up and rest his hand on his new brother’s foot, saying nothing. He didn’t know _what_ to say to a mech who has lost his mate, his other half. Sunstreaker sighed, sipping at the high grade again before sealing the cube and handing it around Prowl to Bluestreak. “Here. I’m going to find some Old Iacon brew.”

“Why Old Iacon?” Smokescreen asked, frowning.

“Because it’s bitter and won’t cloud my processors like Praxian does. Your systems handle your city’s high grade best.” He opened a few more crates before finding the one where he had hidden the right brew. Pulling out a cube, he closed it again and looked up to see Prowl throwing back the last of the fourth cube, letting the empty vessel tumble out of his fingers and onto the ground. That mech was _plastered_. He’d seen _two_ cubes cause Smokescreen to stumble and eventually blow a fuse and pass out.

He’d seen Prowl down three _once_. And only once.

Then again, it had been celebrating the anniversary of his creation date, and he had turned 200 decavorns old at the time. That was a _great_ party. Nobody knew that Prowl could dance as well as he did, and even Barricade, fresh into his adult frame, was stunned at how Prowl had danced with Jazz, even when he was completely drunk off of his aft.

So he pushed one of the last Polyhex cubes into Prowl’s hand. “Here. If you’re gonna blow a fuse, might as well blow it right.”

Opening it, Prowl keened at the scent, but didn’t refuse the sweet brew. He sipped it, then took a long swig before staring at the sweet high grade, vents stuttering and the keen unending. He was crying into his drink. Prowl shuddered, weeping openly before those whom he trusted, feeling the hand of a little brother on his foot, and the touch of two Sparks that were as pained as his own resting upon his own.

Barricade.

They didn’t flinch, didn’t turn away when the whisper of pain from his son commiserated with his own pain. They welcomed him, and that brought comfort to Barricade’s broken Spark. He pressed his emotions towards his Creator, aware that the mech was inebriated and about to pop a fuse, but it was as if he were a Youngling again right after a night horror, finding shelter beside his Creators in the middle of the night.

Prowl wept harder, feeling a warm frame shift closer and avoid his doorwings, but found a way to huddle against his back, shielding his weak spots. He tipped back the last of the Polyhex brew, shaking his head at the sweet taste, and held onto the cube this time. “I wish I’d had one last night with him. Jazz . . . my Jazz . . .”

With a soft fizzle of a blown fuse, he slipped offline, and Sunstreaker moved to hold him upright, despite sagging doorwings. “Right. Let’s get him to a berth, mechs.”

“What’s in the Polyhex?” Smokescreen wondered, feeling Barricade fade back away again. They were still too far away for the kid to keep up the contact for very long.

“I’ve never seen a mech stay awake for very long after chasing even a half cube of Praxian with a quarter cube of Polyhex. There’s chemicals in them that conflict and cause a short-out, knocking mechs offline.” Sunstreaker wrapped one of Prowl’s arms over his shoulder, supporting his waist and standing, easily carrying the mech. “After four Praxian, all he would have needed was a sip of Polyhex, but . . .”

“You have this down to a science.”

“My brother’s a lush; what do you expect?” Sunstreaker grumbled. “I test _everything_ out on him.”

Bluestreak took up Prowl’s other side with a wry smile. “And for Praxians?”

“Doorwings mean that you need more to knock you out if it’s just straight high grade. Doorwings and the battle computer that _he_ has? Yeah. He already defaults to medical grade as his backup emergency energon, so he’s got a better tolerance than most. Ratchet, however, can still out-drink him. Frankly, I’m not sure who would out-last each other, Ratch or Kup.”

They opened the door, and found themselves staring up at Ultra Magnus.

“Well, slag.”

.o.

Bluestreak looked into the training room two orns later, yelping and closing the door as a poled energon shiv went _through_ the metal and barely missed his helm. Staring at it with wide optics, he moved away from the door slowly. _:Sunny, are you still in the brig?:_

_:Just got out. Magnus is still pissed that I let Prowl get drunk, even if he knows that I have no control over what that mech does.:_

_:Yeah, no slag. Uh . . . need your help. Prowl’s in the training room, and he’s decimating the place. He’s not drunk, but at the rate he’s going at, he’ll find a way to breach the hull.:_

_:. . . dammit.:_

_:Yeah.:_

_:Can you report this to Ultra Magnus? I’ll be right there to deal with that.:_

_:Thank you, because I don’t feel like getting my doorwings ripped off today.:_

_:No problem.:_ The gunner walked his way up towards the bridge, where Magnus was bound to be, actually passing Sunstreaker. They touched hands in passing, and Bluestreak felt the leading edge of one of his doorwings touched feather-light.

_:Sunny!:_

_:So I’m horny. Deal with it.:_

_:Cocky bastard.:_

_:You love it.:_

Chuckling, he turned away from his lover, shaking his head. Sunstreaker watched as his sometimes-berthmate walked off, then continued on his way to the training room. Once outside the door, he saw a hole where a pole weapon had been ripped free from the door. He slammed it open and dodged not to the left, as he normally would have, but to the right, rolling and coming up with fists raised. “Prowl!”

“Get out!” the mech roared.

“Not until you calm the frag down!”

“Get _out_!”

“No!”

Prowl attacked him, plain and simple, and he was somehow able to fend the blows off, even getting a few hits in to Prowl’s helm, analyzing the way the mech moved. He wasn’t overcharged, so he hadn’t hit the high grade today. Yet.

They exchanged blows for almost a full joor before Prowl finally stumbled to a halt and looked at his hands, which had golden paint embedded in them. Wavering on his feet, he looked up at Sunstreaker, whose usually-perfect finish was dented, scraped, and had matching white and black paint sitting in his wounds. What had he _done_ , attacking one of his subordinates?

Seeing the change in demeanor of his superior officer, Sunstreaker marched up to him, grabbed his dented elbow, and half-dragged the shell-shocked mech out of the training-room, through the back hallways to avoid being seen, and into the SIC quarters, bringing him directly into the washracks and shoving him under the warm spray. Shifting a few times, he popped out some of his own dents, wincing at the stinging sensation while doing so. After being a fighter for most of his life, he knew how best to get a dent out without pulling armor off. He grabbed a brush and some cleanser, shoving the trying-to-escape Praxian back into the water. “No, you’re staying there.”

“But—”

“No.” This time, the word was said softly, gently, and Sunstreaker took the time to brush out and buff down the places where golden paint had streaked across white or black. He paused at the doorwings, then said, “Turn your sensors off, Prowl.”

“Why?” he whispered, pain holding his voice low. “You don’t think that I’m worth ’facing?”

Snorting, Sunstreaker muttered, “I interface with _Bluestreak_. Doorwings are a big thing with me, all right? They’re attractive. They’re expressive. They’re an easy way to bring a partner to overload if you know what you’re doing and know how to make your partner squirm with arousal. But _you’re not mine_. And Sideswipe will have my aft on a platter if I try to seduce you. We worked hard to have Bluestreak come to trust us, and we will _not_ betray him.”

Doorwings lowered in understanding, and Sunstreaker felt the systems shutting off, effectively rendering Prowl half-blind to his normal way of seeing. He scrubbed at the appendages, making sure to get under all the plates, giving them a thorough cleaning. With a sigh, he muttered, “Prowl, what was that in the training room?”

“Angry. Jazz wouldn’t make a stupid mistake to get himself killed. He would have put himself in harm’s way deliberately. He got himself killed to save someone. He had to have.”

“Yeah. Sounds like you, too. You’ve done the same with us, but not to that scale.” He moved the doorwings upwards to get the bottom edge of them, followed by moving his hands to start scrubbing down Prowl’s spine and along his lower back, eliciting a groan of appreciation from him. As he went along, he shifted plates and popped dents, which was the only damage he had dared to inflict upon the SIC.

“Why are you doing this for me?”

“Because I’m a frontliner and can take the hits. And because I refuse to paint dirty armor.”

“You’re . . . repainting me?”

“Later. When you’re not drinking yourself either to sleep or into oblivion. When you’re not throwing temper tantrums in the training room.”

“I’m sorry . . .”

“Ssh,” Sunstreaker murmured, rinsing the mech off and grabbing a towel to dry him off, quickly drying himself off with swift, sure movements before he hung it up to dry. Taking Prowl’s elbow again, he brought him over to his berth. “Your systems haven’t settled down and really rested since you crashed.”

“You’re—”

“Not leaving you alone. And I’m not going to frag you. Ain’t how this thing works.”

“How what thing works?” Prowl asked in a murmur, feeling his systems lag a little from the washing and care that he had been shown.

“The thing where we make sure that you’re going to be all right.” He helped Prowl sit down, but when he turned to grab a chair, he felt his arm grabbed by a strong hand. Turning, he looked down at the black-and-white with a curious look upon his face, seeing how Prowl even looked confused, shaken. Sighing, Sunstreaker asked, “What is it?”

“I . . . I . . .”

Shaking his head, Sunstreaker crawled into the berth as well, moving to cradle the mech against his chest. He wished that Sideswipe was with him. They’d done this many times for Bluestreak when their friend was in Spark-deep pain over the death of his Caretakers, and later on, after the destruction of Praxus. “Easy, now. Easy.”

He and Sideswipe, between them, could echo their Spark across any mech who was settled in just the right position. It was a gift, they were told, to those whom they trusted. They, unwittingly, imitated the exact feeling of complete safety in Primus’ arms before a Spark separated and was channeled through the AllSpark and into this plane of existence. “I have you.”

Prowl shuddered and fell into keening again, holding onto Sunstreaker as if he were the last lifeline in the universe. There was no safer place to be than settled between two frontliners, after all. And even if there was only one, there was no better place to be than to be beside him. He felt the mech slowly begin to rock side to side, curling around him protectively and whirring reassuringly.

He wept, turning his head away from the world and towards Sunstreaker’s Spark, rocked into slumber by one of the last mechs he assumed would ever do something like this for him.

.o.

Smokescreen and Kup stood in the doorway, not believing what they were seeing. Clicking softly, Kup gained Sunstreaker’s optics, which onlined slowly. He spoke softly, wanting to know what was going on before the psychologist blew a fuse, literally, from anger. _:Lad, what’re we seeing?:_

_:You saw what happened in the training room?:_

_:Yes.:_

_:Good. Here.:_ He sent along his memories, with his emotions dulled through them, but not completely taken out, so that they could see his intentions and his motives.

Smokescreen was so shocked that his armor lay flat against his frame and his doorwings went limp. _:So . . . you . . .:_

_:Have no intentions of fragging the mech senseless. Didn’t you two ask Bluestreak? I told him what I was doing as it was happening.:_ Sunstreaker didn’t move from holding Prowl against his chest, keeping him warm and keeping him company.

_:He said to come and talk directly to you, because we wouldn’t believe him.:_ Smokey sighed, looking like he had ingested sour energon. : _Sorry. I shouldn’t have leapt to conclusions.:_

_:Most anyone would, if they saw me like this with Prowl. Look, he’s twitching, he knows that there are other people here. He’ll tolerate Bluestreak cuddling up to him right now, but you two have to get going before he wakes up and feels embarrassed. And tell First Aid **nothing** about his psych profile right now, Smokey. Yes, he’s got issues, but my reasons for being here right now has to go in the official sealed psych report for Prime and Ratchet, and **not** into the general officers report. First Aid doesn’t know me, and he doesn’t know why I do what I do for you mechs.:_

Kup nodded, turning and leaving with Smokescreen in his wake. The twin looked down at the SIC in his arms, feeling the keen that they couldn’t hear. Prowl wept even in his sleep. “Jazz, why’d you go and get yourself killed? Don’t you know what you’ve done?” he whispered into the air before curling Prowl closer and pressing his helm against the red chevron.

.o.

“NO!” Shooting awake, Prowl scrambled and struggled against the arms around him, hearing voices yelling in shock until someone tackled his legs and pinned him down from behind.

“Prowl! Prowl, it was a night horror! It’s all right, mech, I’m here, I’m alive, it’s all right.”

Coming back to the present, Prowl trembled, looking over his shoulder to see Jazz’s concerned optics hovering in the dark, people around him, Ratchet, Optimus, Bluestreak and the Twins, all watching him with worry clear on their faces. Thankfully, those who didn’t know him as well were all in the new buildings, getting firm recharge. Prowl had been feeling claustrophobic in the cinderblock rooms, sensing odd echoes because of his doorwings from the unfamiliar acoustics. 

Prowl groaned and rested his helm in the dirt. “Oh.”

Jazz’s strong, nimble touch soothed him as he rubbed at his back, his doorwings, murmuring softly, “I know, mech, I know.”

“Thought you’d died again,” he whispered hoarsely.

“I know.”

“How?”

“You were speakin’ in your sleep. I’ve been tryin’ to wake you up for the last five minutes.”

“Oh.” He pushed upwards with his arms, then felt Jazz remove himself from his frame. Sitting up, he turned to look around. “I’m sorry.”

“Psh, mech, it’s all right. Ya startled Hudson, though.”

Wincing, he looked for the mechling, who was currently pushing his way out of Sunstreaker’s arms. As soon as the golden form saw that Prowl was back in his right mind again, the twin put the child down, who shot over and into Prowl’s arms, pressing against his Spark and whispering, “You were sad.”

“Yes, my little one, I was. I am.”

“Jazz left you for a while?”

“Yeah, I did, but I’ll tell you the long story later,” the mech murmured, feeling more at peace with a child in his arms, and his silver mate resting a hand on his knee, watching his face expectantly. Leaning in, they pressed their foreheads together in a Cybertronian kiss, then settled back.

Until they heard that unmistakable midnight voice rasp in Cybertronian, “Jazz? How the _frag_ are you _alive_?!”

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Many, many, MANY thanks go out to two people who are better at math than I am: my Mum and my brother’s plumber friend. Because without them, I would NOT have had how many joors were in an orn in this universe. I’m a writer, dammit, not a mathematician! /Bones._

_Right, so here’s the start of the Revenge Arc. Revenge coming from the title “Revenge of the Fallen,” which this arc will deal with in its own unique way, and in a variety of sarcastic and playful connotations. Prowl will have his revenge on Jazz, Bluestreak will find some revenge on the Twins, and just you wait to see who will be coming to play!_

_Just to reiterate: Fanfiction means that I’m not making money off of it. I’m making money off of a costume commission at the moment._

_Song is: “Far Above the Clouds” by Mike Oldfield_

__

.o.

__

_HOLY MARY MUDDER O’ GOD DIDYE SEE DARK O’ T’ MOON?! /Irish rant_

_Yes, yes, I was **thoroughly** impressed with it. And I feel like I was hit with a brick wall with some of those plot-twists. Nearly cried twice. Okay, three times. I’m gonna go back and see it again. DAMN what a light-show!_


	30. Revenge Arc 2: Reach For Me Now

“Sweet Primus,” Jazz whispered, standing and looking up at the mech that separated from the shadows. “Sweet Primus and all His messengers, you’re safe.”

“I _saw him kill you_. How are you alive?”

“Long story, my mechlin’, long story. But it’s me. I’m back.”

Barricade walked into the group of mechs, all motions stopping and freezing at hearing a cheep of fear from a Sparkling, optics rolling around before he found the source of the noise sitting on his Creator’s shoulder. “Prowl . . .”

Smiling, the mech walked over, reaching up to cup his son’s face within his hands. The motion caused the Sparkling to cheep louder, more insistently in fear as he “hid” hanging between Prowl’s doorwings. The Autobot Second in Command murmured, “Welcome home, my Sparklet.”

The cheeping stopped at hearing the words, and Jazz smiled at seeing Hudson peeking over Prowl’s shoulder as they greeted each other as Caretaker and child, resting foreheads together lightly. Barricade’s optics dimmed to black as he soaked in the greeting after far too many years of not being able to have any non-combat contact with Prowl. Hudson blinked his crimson optics twice, then whispered, “He’s my big brother?”

“Yes,” Prowl murmured, smiling and scruffing the child, holding him in his hands and facing him towards their grown son. “This is Barricade, whom we raised upon Cybertron a very long time ago. Barricade, meet your little brother, Hudson.”

One long-fingered hand reached out and tugged Jazz into an embrace, leaning one burly shoulder against Prowl’s. “Mm. I’m . . . I’m very glad to meet you, Hudson.” Leaning down, he curled around Jazz, hovering just as protectively as Prowl had in those first few hours, scanning and making sure that this _was_ his Creator. “And I’m very shocked at seeing you _alive_ , Jazz. How is this possible?”

“Trade secret,” Optimus murmured with a great deal of humor and acceptance in his voice, causing Barricade’s head to snap upwards and looking at the mechs that were still congregated around them. He reached out wordlessly towards Ratchet, essentially his grandfather, who walked over and curled him up in an embrace. The Twins and Bluestreak came over in a rush, just as eager to touch hands, to greet the wayward son and welcome him home. Within seconds, there was a small clump of Cybertronians centered around two individuals, both of whom had been lost until very recently.

Prowl smiled at his mate and his first son, who was holding Hudson against a Spark that still beat for Primus’ will despite his charade that he served the Smelter. Resting an arm around Barricade’s waist, his other arm around Jazz’s shoulders, Prowl rested in the peace that was his family reunited, nestled in the protection of the universe’s most formidable warriors.

It was a heady emotion, and one that he willingly gave himself over to.

.o.

Lennox leaned against the Topkick’s fender, glad for the curb that he stood on so he could see over the hood and keep an eye on traffic. Being in battle so often against alien robots in disguise as cars made him wary of any too-expensive vehicles in middle-class situations. He folded his arms over his chest, a Bluetooth shoved in his ear while he was outside of the vehicle. “So aside from the fact that you haven’t worked with the man, you have no other real hesitation of him working with the kids?”

“Slaggit, Will, I don’t like his kind.”

“I know, I know. But he’s not all bad. After almost shitting himself when Prime talked to him, he turned out to be a decent human being. Unlike Simmons.”

“Hmph. This is coming from a man who wants to take the liaison’s leg off at the hip and beat him with it.”

“Any liaison that Chairman Galloway assigns to us because he doesn’t have the clearance to step onto the base is a useless waste of space that we’ll continue to ignore. Simple fact of life.”

“I look forward to the day that the boy grows up. Sam’s got a good head on his shoulders, even if he’s still a bit immature.”

Lennox sighed, rubbing at his face. “Yeah, me too, Hide. Me too.”

“Major Lennox?” a voice asked, one from two years ago, one that Will hadn’t heard for a long time, one that had chorused with a teenage boy’s cries to not shoot and to let the Camaro go.

Looking up, he held his hand out with no frills attached and kept a smile from his face until he knew whether or not the man could be trusted. “Mr. Banachek, it’s actually a pleasure to see you. How was your flight?”

Wise eyes tracked across the Army man’s face with experience born from years of dealing with military and special-ops-trained men. “We had a non-military pilot.”

“Rough landing?”

“Plane bounced three times before we settled.”

“At least you didn’t have to ’chute out.”

“Well, that would have at least made it _interesting_.”

Both men grinned to each other before Ironhide grumbled into Will’s ear, “You _didn’t_.”

“Didn’t what?” he replied, gaining a confused frown from Banachek, picking up the first of two duffel bags and swinging it up and into the bed of the pickup. Tapping the Bluetooth headset twice and pointing to the truck, he got the second duffel bag up and beside the first with little trouble.

“Major Lennox, sir! Reporting for duty, sir,” two voices chorused simultaneously.

“At ease, Quibbley, Langley,” he said with a grin, getting return smiles as they moved to put their luggage into the bed of the badass black alien warrior.

“You had to bring _Ratchet’s pet_ onto this?” Ironhide half-whined in his human’s ear. “I liked her better on the field with us! She knows what the frag she’s doing in our systems without having to ask!”

He thumped his fist against the Topkick’s door in clear irritation, cutting the mini-rant off mid-stream, then pulled the earpiece from his head. “If you’ll all pile in, I’ll brief you on the way.”

“Can I just offer one suggestion, sir?” Bryce Langley was one of the first men he had recruited and one of his most staunch supporters. He was a stable, steady personality that had seen a lot of action, and was always picked up as one of Lennox’s personal support crew for coverage. So when he offered suggestions, Lennox listened.

“Yeah.”

“I don’ wanna fly in’n’out of bleedin’ Dallas-Fort Worth all the time. This airport makes the sandbox look like _preschool_.”

Snickering, Lennox walked around Ironhide’s blunt prow and was almost nailed by an 8-passanger shuttle van for his efforts, getting an upraised finger and a series of curses filtering out a window from a language that was clearly not English. He replied in kind, using four languages and twice as many gestures. He swung up into Ironhide’s cab, who didn’t wait for anyone to buckle in. He saw an opening, and he took it, almost running over a little black 2002 Camaro in the process.

The little man in the Camaro snarled up at the larger vehicle, spouting obscenities in English and Spanish, which caused Ironhide to smirk in a _purely_ mental fashion, backfire intentionally and with clearly more gusto than a normal kick to fill the Camaro’s air intake with his exhaust.

Lennox watched as the boy coughed and snickered. “That was mean.”

“Punk deserved it.”

“Probably did. So. Briefing. None of you know why we shipped you here on such short notice.” He grinned broadly, buckling in but leaving his hands off of Ironhide’s steering wheel. “Well, Banachek, you know what we’ve been up to for the last two months. Quibbley, Langley, you two have been stationed on base to keep the Idiot Twins in line and to work with Epps, Jolt and Arcee for inventory purposes and keeping an eye on the radar. You are two of my best staff, and two people I trust the most to have my back if slag hits the fan and certain government officials find out what we’re doing. I could be court-martialed for this.” He made sure both knew what they were getting into.

“Boss, what’d’ja find?” Peace finally asked, reading the hopeful shock on the former S-7 leader’s face without even having to try.

Patting Ironhide’s dash, feeling the affectionate growl of camaraderie at the motion, Lennox answered, “Their future.”

.o.

Ratchet sighed at the results he got from his scan, hearing Dana grumble, “It’s not working, and I can _feel_ that it’s not working, Doc.”

“I am not—”

“Oh, knock it off, Ratchet, you’re a doctor, just not of my race.” The older woman sighed, crossing arms over her chest as she glared at Ratchet. Both knew that the glare wasn’t aimed at the mech for his actions, but rather as just an expression of frustration that she wasn’t getting better. “The first treatment plan clearly isn’t working; why haven’t you started talking to me about the nanites?”

Venting all his air and cycling fluids through his system in an effort to calm down, Ratchet rested his hands upon his hips and stated, “I wish that Smokescreen were here. He’d be able to help with a psych eval to make sure that you’re stable enough to go through with putting nanites into your system.”

“What’s the projected lifespan?” Dana asked.

“Several thousand years,” he replied, his voice low, worried about what this information may mean to her. “You will outlive every human you know, and will know, unless they choose this option as well.”

“Many people _want_ immortality, or a facsimile of it.”

“Not everyone can handle the true implications of it.” Ratchet sighed. “Dana, _why_ do you press me about this?”

She looked him over, his frame, his stature, his expression. Having been around adult Cybertronians for the last two months, she found that their body-language wasn’t quite as hard to read as it first appeared. The woman sighed, seeing the weary stance. He didn’t want her to regret her choice. “Ratchet, I was a medic in a MASH unit in Vietnam. I’ve seen kids die. I was picked up to work for Sector Seven because I saw something that I shouldn’t have, and refused to sign a waiver. I was transferred without knowing it until the day it was official, and became part of the Sector Seven medical unit at Hoover Dam. I’ve been there a long time.”

She looked around, seeing Hudson playing with Faust, who was laughing brightly, his whole expression happy and uplifted. “I saw panicked Sparklings kill men without knowing what they were doing, just trying to defend themselves, only to be destroyed in a hailstorm of bullets. I’ve seen the worst that mankind has to offer. I’ve seen soldiers kill children of both our species, Ratchet.” Dana looked back up at the medic. “I also spent time around the Cube. I spent a lot of my free time walking the catwalks around it.”

“Did you . . . no, you wouldn’t have touched it,” Ratchet whispered in a awed, shocked tone. Even _he_ wouldn’t have dared to touch it.

“Humans just didn’t understand the significance of what it is. The scientists were trying to reason away something that wasn’t scientific to begin with. Yes. I spent a lot of time feeling the hum of power around it.”

“You weren’t injured?”

“I was one of two people who weren’t injured by the Cube. The only other person who was allowed that privilege, and I _know_ it was a privilege, was Banachek. Everyone else either was given anywhere from a something like a static shock to being tossed several feet away.”

“But you could touch it.”

“Yes.”

“Amazing.” He didn’t mention that the former director was coming to be part of this program.

“What would it do on your homeworld?”

Ratchet drew in a fresh breath of air, settling upon a mech-sized concrete “stump” that overlooked the main play-area for the Sparklings. “It could send mechs through walls. The only ones who were able and allowed to touch the AllSpark were the Prime, the Prime’s Consort, and certain priests. There was some sort of criteria that a soul, or a Spark, had to pass in order to be able to come into the Inner Sanctum of the Temple of Primus in Simfur, and to touch the AllSpark.”

“How long could a mech stand to be around the Cube until it became too much for them?”

“Oh, humans had that same feeling?” Ratchet chuckled, thoroughly amused by the continuing similarities between humans and Transformers. “All save Prime could only be around the AllSpark for, perhaps, maybe an hour at most before they had to leave. Elita could manage up to a day. Prime once spent ten days before the Cube, and when he came out of the Inner Sanctum, he found Elita, his Sparkmate, quite literally keeping everyone from storming in there and wanting to bring him out before he became insane.”

“So insanity has happened with prolonged exposure to the AllSpark?”

“Mm. Sometimes. It depends upon the soul. Optimus was Spark-broken over the loss of his Caretakers, the betrayal of his brother, and the pain and agony that came from knowing that he, a peacemaker, would have to become a war machine in order to preserve the life of our people. All those events happened within the time-span of about one Earth week, and he found peace, solace, and a renewed will and vision for what he had to do with his life.” He paused. “You know about Archibald Witwicky.”

“I do. I studied his case file many times, but I’m not a psychologist.”

“And?”

“And I think that whatever NBE-One, Megatron, did to him was only the tip of the iceberg.”

“You think that traits were inherited down through the Witwicky family?”

Dana nodded, with a smile. “For example, we kept an eye on Ron Witwicky, Sam’s father. The man has an innate understanding of mechanical workings. It’s why he’s been successful in the antique car industry, rebuilding and reselling them for far more profit than they should usually run for, knowing just who will purchase the classical pieces.”

“And what of Sam?”

She settled upon a human-sized wooden bench, watching as the rest of the Sparklings were released from a lesson by Kup, who followed them out of one of the new buildings on her property with a smile on his face and his entire posture relaxed, enjoying doing what he had done before the Great War had started. Dana’s voice was soft, tender. “Sam’s a mystery, Ratchet. He’s a good kid, but he’s a mystery.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well . . . why else would you try so hard to be normal, unless there was something wrong?”

.o.

“Hello, the house!” Lennox called as he walked into the front room, hearing a half-dozen young voices yell his name and begin to beat a hasty advance up the stairs from the den, where they had been settled down and watching a cartoon as part of their human-culture rearing.

Bryce took a hasty step back at seeing the pack of _not-human_ children skid around a corner, stepping on Peace’s foot in the process. She wasn’t paying attention to him, instead staring with a slack jaw at _miniature Transformers_ that were filling the room with bright laughter. The kids blinked at the three newcomers and a hundred questions began to pepper them until Lennox whistled for silence. “Dang, you kids could really talk the ear off of a donkey!” He reached out and rested his hand upon a few helms, leaning down so that they could _gently_ touch their forehead to his in their greeting.

Banachek watched with a slack jaw and with misting eyes. This was what he wished he could have seen all those years ago when he had sent Dana out with the first “tame drone.” This . . . maybe with helping these children, he could atone for his past sins.

“Good, you’re here,” a familiar voice boomed from behind them.

The mob of youngsters shot out the front door and began to crawl over Optimus, who was idling in his alt mode, causing an instant reaction in the mech. He sank on his shocks and didn’t give off that vibe of tangible leadership that rolled off of him. Optimus _relaxed_. He was at peace. Banachek smiled at the scene, hearing him rumble a few answers off to the children. He smiled and murmured, “That’s a sight I hoped I would live to see.”

“They’re _adorable_ ,” Peace sighed, hugging herself and smiling.

Huffing, resting hands on hips, Bryce looked to Lennox. “And what do you expect me, a soldier, to do here?”

“Walk with me. Prime will keep the kids occupied for a while. He’s been off scouting and enjoying a good stretch of his wheels this afternoon, and he likes being mobbed by the kids when he comes home. It’s actually something of a pack mentality that is best described as a wolf coming back to the den after a hunt to greet the pack pups.” Lennox lead them through the house and out to the back, where the other mechs had assembled with Dana. She smiled up at the Army Major, greeting him with an embrace while the two NEST members stared in shock at the new faces. Turning, he said, “All right, you’re part of the secret, you two. Means that you can’t tell anyone about the five new faces you see before you.”

“He looks just like Sideswipe,” Bryce said with a frown, pointing to the golden twin.

“Meet Sunstreaker, Sideswipe’s twin. I’d rather have _them_ at my side than Skids and Mudflap any day. Better warriors, better pranks. We’ll be bringing Sunstreaker out onto the field for a while to give Siders a break. He’ll be acting as his twin, for reasons that I’ll fill you in on later.” He moved on. “Bryce, you are assigned to Bluestreak, who has actually also been assigned to be your Guardian, like Bumblebee to the Witwicky kid, only this is a working partnership. He is the best sniper in the Autobot army, bar none, and I’ve seen what he can do. You two are the best gunners and best people for protection at a distance that Optimus and I can provide for this small squad.” He grinned to both, getting a hesitant, but genuine, smile in return from Bluestreak. “Peace, you’re transferring here to apprentice under First Aid in a more intensive type of program. He’s Ratchet’s own fledged apprentice, and Doc Hatchet told us that he wanted you off the front lines so that you lived longer and can reach the potential he sees in you.”

“You said that?” she asked of the crotchety old mech who stood with arms crossed over his chest.

“Yep,” he replied with a smirk. “So don’t prove me wrong.”

“Wow. I’ll take that as an ‘I love you, kid’ and not question the motives behind it,” she chuckled, shoving hands into her pockets and smiling up at the new faces.

Lennox continued. “Kup is our resident teacher for the Sparklings. He’s able to keep them all in hand while he educates them. They have the attention span of a guppy when they’re worked up. I don’t know how he does it.”

“But don’t think that means I can’t tell one end of a pistol from the other,” he said warningly, his voice aged further than the others, but still holding a healthy dose of humor in it. He waved for Lennox to continue.

The man grinned and indicated the most poised of the lot, who watched the three newcomers with a distinct lack of emotion upon his face, his armor setting neutral, doorwings held at a stiff, precise angle. Banachek wouldn’t see these cues, but Peace and Bryce watched him with sharp gazes. “Prowl. Autobot Second in Command, head of Autobot Strategy and Tactics Division, Executive Officer, Optimus’ best friend aside from his bodyguard, Ironhide, and the hand-to-hand combat trainer for mechs who have the talent for that type of fighting. What am I missing?” he said with a frown.

“The other two mechs,” Prowl replied evenly, his smooth baritone of the perfect pitch and cadence to put the NEST members at ease. They glanced at each other, then grinned at how they had reacted. The grins fell as the realized what Prowl had said. When they blinked back up at him in shock, he shifted, looking to where two mechs were walking from around a building. “My mate, Jazz, and our grown Sparkling, Barricade.”

“But he was _dead_!” Peace hissed between her teeth in shock as Bryce reacted predictably.

“Bullshit!” Bryce said, pulling his sidearm out and leveling it at the Decepticon. “Ain’ no way that monster’s your kid!”

Jazz looked up at the leveled weapon, frowned, but saw Lennox taking care of it. Sighing, he walked closer to Bryce. “Langley, Barricade’s been a spy for ’is entire adult life, an’ I’ve been his _parent_ , directly involved, for that entire time. He’s one of us. Chill out, will you?”

Now disarmed, the man snarled, “I’ve seen the reports and the traffic-cam videos! He attacked the Witwicky kid!”

The red-opticked mech winced, visibly flinching as he fearlessly strode closer. “Langley, I was a bit rough on the boy, it’s true. But I have studied human design tolerances, and I understand teenage boy psychology. I did not ‘attack’ him. I stopped him in his tracks, yes. I chased him, tossed him, but were I a _true_ Decepticon, I would have taken his legs out without preamble, _stepped_ on him, and swatted him. I would have killed him if he didn’t give me what I had wanted, and gone in search of his father with his body as leverage to get the man to cooperate. Or, because of the sadism inherent in the ranks, a ’Con would have killed him in front of his parents. It matters not. Ultimately, Decepticons do not take prisoners.”

Langley frowned, looking at how Prowl moved closer to Barricade, with Jazz taking up his other side. Eyes widened, and he whispered, “And _you_ were _dead_.”

“Yeah. Was. But I’m needed alive, an’ I get a chance to be aroun’ Sparklin’s again. _And_ my mate an’ son. Been a long time for me since I could be around both an’ not have to keep up a charade of tryin’ ta flatten his aft.” Jazz indicated the undercover Autobot and shrugged. “An’ Cade was quite easy on the kid.”

“Does the boy know that you’re . . .”

“He was here last weekend,” Lennox said with a grin. “Got to see Bumblebee kick aft, and I’m jealous that he’s not part of NEST, but Sam knows more than _you_ do right now about the Autobots.”

“And a good deal more that he _shouldn’t_ know,” Ratchet grouched, then huffed and shook his head. “But he’s kept Bumblebee a secret for a year and a half, and that’s what counts. He’s growing into being a man of his word, and he’s not showing any sign of breaking under human peer pressure.”

“Kid knows about _me_ , now,” Barricade said with a chuckle. “And after hearing about his panic attack at seeing my Creator,” he thumbed towards Prowl, “I think I’m going to enjoy meeting him again sometime.”

He got warning glares from both Creators and he smirked, earning himself a smack upside the helm from Sunstreaker. He reached over and grabbed the golden arm, but was careful about the paint. “Want to dance, pretty boy?”

“You’re _on_.”

The humans found themselves scooped up as the mechs half-ran to what had once been an indoor arena and was now the training grounds that Bumblebee had defeated Jolt upon. The afternoon was spent in a haze of laughter, getting to know the new mechs, and watching as the younger generation of Autobots tested themselves against each other, and then against Prowl and Jazz in a variety of skirmishes that almost always ended in laughter or smiles.

And then Ratchet gave his announcement to the mechs, after the humans all went to bed down for the night, some of whom having Sparklings choosing to recharge beside them or on cots in their rooms in the new buildings.

“Prime, Prowl . . . Dana has made her decision.”

Nobody moved, awaiting to hear what Ratchet was going to say.

“Nanite therapy will begin tomorrow. She will be living with us for a long time to come.”

Over the coms, the mechs cheered, some sagging against each other in relief at hearing what would be the end of a very hard couple months. Dana had become like a Caretaker to all of them, adults included, knowing just when someone needed a smile or a pat on the armor. She was the surrogate matronly caretaker. It would be a good thing that she would live to see her Sparkling, her son, grow and become an Adult.

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Yes, it was Barricade! I had a lot of fun working on this chapter, and then when I reached page 16 . . . I realized that I had two chapters in one, and I wanted to really take special care of what is going to happen in the next chapter. . . which is going to be awesome and you get to see Galloway get his aft handed to him by someone that I **know** you’re going to really enjoy._

_And to every reviewer, to every person who has read my story, **thank you**! You guys are awesome, and you’re making me think through some things that I haven’t thought through before. Special thanks goes to those who are putting this on their favorites list, and on their story watches! You guys rock!_

_Song is: “Reach For Me Now” off of the Cirque Du Soleil “Ka” soundtrack_

_**Bryce Langley** belongs to **ArmoredSoul** here on FFnet and on DeviantArt. She was kind enough to let me use his character, and hopefully, I got him right. She was the 200th reviewer, and because of that, this was the reward for helping reach that point. Next up, as I said, is a reward for the 300th reviewer. I’ll keep everyone updated on that perk of reading this story as I go along._


	31. Revenge Arc 3: Before It's Too Late

A month passed relatively peaceably, according to the “normal flow” of things. NEST hunted down Decepticons regularly, and were making their way back from one such mission, which thankfully had no casualties. Optimus and Lennox both held a high premium on saving lives, but humans were just so fragged _delicate_ that it was impossible to go through all the missions without loss of life. It was better now that Optimus was using Prowl’s mind for getting the missions planned and executed, and Prowl and Jazz had not-so-discreetly demanded of Optimus that they were to be linked up via real-time com chatter during missions and any contact with Decepticons. Those two facts alone helped them bring survival rates back up. They never spoke to anyone but Optimus, Ironhide, Ratchet, Lennox and Epps, giving them intel and suggestions. It never hurt to make it look like leaders were far more capable than even their own impressive talents, and was a popular move in politics, regardless of the species.

When it became a rough situation, Prowl and Optimus would use an old uplink protocol that caused the two minds to almost be as close as in a hard-line interface session. Thoughts were seen, emotions felt, and it was a distinct invasion of privacy that the two had agreed was a lesser evil in the face of making sure that troops lived and battles were won. It helped that the connection was only used in battle situations with offensive and defensive subroutines were running at full capacity and Prowl was nowhere near the front lines. Optimus had the sheer power, and Prowl knew how best to _direct_ the power. It took a lot of trust, and they, with their mates, had sat down at the beginning of the Great War when Prowl was having his legs rebuilt from having a slagging _building_ come down on them to discuss how to direct battles and keep the loss of life at a minimum. Jazz and Elita had agreed that these were two of the most private mechs in the Autobot Army, save Mirage, and that whatever bled over was negligent and would obviously never be referenced unless it was in private and _needed_ to be discussed because it would affect performance. Thankfully, since Prowl had landed, he and Optimus had only had to use that protocol _once_ , in an incident in Malaysia.

As Lennox looked up at the alt-forms of the massive warriors that they traveled with in the cargo bay of the plane, he realized that what really was getting under his skin was that a few of the Autobots seemed distracted over the last twenty-four hours. Arcee had been slow to respond to orders and to Con threats, Optimus’ head _really_ wasn’t in the raid (which was clear to see after at least two scores of missions that they had completed together), and Ironhide, which was even _more_ odd, was part of this group. Ratchet had run scans before they had deployed, right before they entered combat, during pauses in combat, after combat, and was doing a fifth scan while they returned to Diego Garcia. The CMO drew the three Autobots, Lennox and Epps into a conversation over the radios that the humans knew were going to be encrypted in Autobot ciphers. _“All right. What the slag is going on, Optimus?”_

A wordless rumble was the leader’s reply.

_“You, Ironhide, and Arcee haven’t been firing on all pistons today and part of yesterday. What’s going on?”_

_“I don’t know.”_

_“Did you guys go through a thorough recharge-and-defrag in the last fifty-six hours?”_ Epps asked, leaning his elbows on his knees. He kept up with what the maintenance routines were, even if he wasn’t part of the human end of the maintenance team. Being the techie that he was, not to mention that he was close friends with Ratchet and Optimus, he helped look out for everyone. It was orders that anyone going on a mission get five hours minimum of recharge the night before and a defrag of their battle computer and main processor.

Three affirmatives met his query, and Lennox sighed. _“Look, guys, it’s been a month since we’ve been on the ranch. I know we’re tired, I know you’re missing the firepower that’s currently recuperating there, but we have to keep going.”_

_“Will, it’s not that. I don’t know **what** it is that’s going on,” _Ironhide grumbled, his voice still feeling a bit “distant,” even though the pickup was parked and secured for transport. _“It just feels like something’s blocked out. Like I’ve lost a sensory node.”_

_“That . . . does describe it accurately,”_ Arcee affirmed. _“I have specific sensors in each module of myself, and it’s like one of my main scanners is just . . . gone.”_

_“All right, once we’re landed, which should be within five minutes, I’ll take a look at your processors to see if any code fragged itself into not recognizing a sensory array’s input.”_ Ratchet seemed to shrug mentally. _“It happens from time to time.”_

The leader made a wordless noise of assent, then paused. _“But it usually only came from interfacing or long-distance communication issues, neither of which have been—”_

_“Major Lennox! We have inbound bogeys on radar coming in hot!”_

_“What?!”_ He looked up then barked over the main radios, “Everyone strap down! Combat landing! Get your ass in a seat _now_!”

The planes hit the tarmac with unforgiving force, pilots triggering the bay doors to be opened for Autobots to exit as quickly as possible even while they continued to taxi at a higher rate of speed than they would normally do such things. As soon as the Autobots were out of the holds, they moved out of the way for the second plane to land literally feet from the tail, since the large military cargo plane was now parked to let the human NEST members out. Optimus rolled into a transformation on the other side of the runway, rifle out and aimed at the incoming five incoming cometary forms that Cybertronians used for a hard landing. He heard Ironhide and Sunstreaker pull the same maneuver as he did while Ratchet took up a backup position with Arcee and the Idiot Twins.

Five comets hit with precision right into the bay of the U-shaped atoll, causing waves to ripple against the shore. Humans ran up to bracket the Autobot firepower, sabot rounds loaded and ready to punch through armor.

Silence, broken only by a few tense words over the coms.

_:Sunstreaker, was anyone else supposed to follow your team down?:_

:No. Magnus is bringing everyone in the long way, scouting as he’s coming. And this is a classified base, unless we’ve been compromised. Boss? You know if that’s the case?: __

Optimus spoke quickly, seeing thermal readings of distinctly bipedal shapes moving under the water and coming closer. _:Prowl and I spoke about this matter, and there is no feasible way that the Decepticons would know that we’re on this forsaken spit of land. This could well be coincidence.:_

_:Doesn’t feel like it,:_ Ironhide muttered, his voice over the coms a bass rumble. _:Something doesn’t feel right . . . like something’s not lining up and I’m missing a huge slaggin’ chunk of intel. It’s worse than earlier today.:_

Five bipeds came walking out of the water, and as soon as the center form saw who was greeting them with weapons drawn, they gave a small shout and bolted out of the bay, taking gallons of water with them as they streaked towards the Prime.

“Primus’ Spark!” Optimus tossed his weapon aside, careful not to throw it down upon any of their humans, to caught the femme that scaled his frame, pressing her close, whispering her name in Cybertronian as she pressed kisses to his helm, his face, her forehead firmly locked against his.

Ironhide had just enough time to stare in utter and complete shock at seeing _that femme_ on Earth when _he_ was quite literally tackled, his frame going down under the just-barely-slighter frame of— “Chromia!” he yelled, laughing and pulling her down for an embrace, feeling her deep and yet _completely_ feminine laugh light up his Spark, which suddenly felt _right_. “You were _blocking_ me! _That’s_ why everything felt wrong!” He shifted to Cybertronian, murmuring words he had wanted to say to her for at least two thousand years.

The words he spoke caused the Twins to start gagging. “We don’ wanna know! Man, we _don’ wanna know_ whatchu two be doin’ tonight!”

Lennox and his men put weapons up as _Arcee_ darted around them, combining with a smooth and practiced motion, throwing arms around a rangy green mech who grinned and murmured a greeting, their gazes locked. Epps was still staring up at Optimus and the femme who could only be Elita, seeing how they ignored the world around them, just watching each other. He smiled and shook his head. “Well, I’ll be damned. The Big Man is a huge softie ’round his lady. Reminds me of you, Will.”

“Don’t let Sarah hear you call me a softie; I have a rep to keep,” he teased, smiling and watching how a mech just under Ratchet’s size walked up to the medic, who roughly smacked him upside the helm, then reached around to embrace him. But it wasn’t like the embrace between lovers who had left each other for a long time. The Major frowned. Either Wheeljack and Ratchet were holding back (which was a huge possibility, since only he and Epps knew about how truly asexual their alien friends were despite their inherent romantic nature), or they had stopped being lovers some time during the war.

A small mech (or was that a femme?) seemed to be grinning and enjoying being the only one not being greeted by a lover or a friend. So Lennox avoided Optimus, who was murmuring in his native tongue and _completely_ oblivious to the humans, which was a first, and walked up to the fifth Autobot. “Well, since everyone else seems to be busy planning their respective second Honeymoons or harassing old friends, I’m Major William Lennox. I head up the human division of NEST in the field, and co-command with Optimus.”

“Hound,” the mech said with a grin, a male voice matching up with the way he seemed to be moving in a not-delicate fashion, implementing body-language subroutine packets that one of the other mechs must have forwarded to him. He didn’t seem to mind the waves lapping at his ankles. “Good to meet you, Major Lennox. I, ah, apologize for my senior officers. They haven’t seen their mates for at least two, three thousand Earth years.”

“No need. We’ve seen some old friends reunited recently, so we understand how mechs can get a bit taken-up in the moment. _Sideswipe_ ,” and he emphasized the name for the wrong twin, “was particularly happy to see Ratchet after a couple thousand years of being away from him.”

“Get out of that salt water before it corrodes your feet,” Ratchet snarked by way of greeting. Hound chuckled and walked out of the water, getting scanned by his CMO and waiting patiently for the snarl-fest that was _bound_ to happen. And it was _about_ to, but Wheeljack merely grinned and elbowed Ratchet, which caused the mech to huff, snark something through an encrypted channel, and glare at Hound.

Lennox grinned, caught Wheeljack’s gaze, indicated Ratchet with a flick of his eyes, raised his eyebrows questioningly, and got a thumbs-up and a bright grin from the engineer. Which promptly got him another swat from the irascible mech in question, causing everyone to laugh. But Epps and Lennox knew from that interaction that the two were definitely still a couple.

And then the first femme spoke in a clear, bell-like voice that was a perfect counterpart to Optimus’ dignified bass tones. “Major Lennox, Tech Sergeant Epps, I wish to thank you both for keeping my Sparkmate alive.” When they turned to look at the femme, they saw the smile lighting her face up as she crouched to hold her hand out to them both. “And I am very glad that he has warriors of your quality fighting beside him. I’m looking forward to meeting the boy from the Mission City battle, however. He did me a personal favor by choosing Megatron’s chest to push the Cube into.”

Lennox, fearlessly, put his hand against one of her large fingers in greeting. “It’s our honor, Elita-One, ma’am. Thankfully, Prime’s been reasonable. We’ll see about giving you a chance to meet Sam Witwicky as soon as we can.”

“Optimus has been _reasonable_?” the other femme asked in shock, then barked a laugh, “Lita! You’ve tamed him!”

“Oh, _hush_ ,” Optimus groused at the larger femme, who was helping her mate up off of the ground, but they kept their arms around each other as they walked over.

Ironhide chuckled and introduced the chrome-blue femme beside him. “Will, this is my Sparkmate Chromia.”

“I’d like to be assigned to Will’s wife on the mainland,” Chromia stated directly, her manners enough like Ironhide’s that Lennox found himself smiling and relaxing.

“Will?” the Prime deferred to his human counterpart.

“I’ll talk with Sarah tonight about it. She likes Ironhide, so if your mech has been tamed, Chromia, _she’s_ the reason why.”

“That femme is lethal with a bucket of soap and a hose,” Ironhide said in his defense, grinning and pulling his femme closer to his side, leaning his head down just that bit to rest his lips against her helm, optics on the look-out for anything, wanting to protect his femme at any cost. “And she’s retired military herself.”

“Then she and I will get along nicely.”

“She and Will have a child.”

Elita’s head swiveled at the term, blinking once before Chromia grinned and chirped, “A human child! OH! You . . .” She looked down at Lennox, who was enjoying watching the scene unfolding before him. “You and your wife make a _very_ attractive genetic combination.”

“Thank you,” Will laughed, knowing the praise for what it was. Ironhide must have forwarded a video or some pictures of Annabelle from their last visit home. He looked up to Elita and Optimus, who were watching each other again. With a smile to Arcee and her mech, who had to be Springer, he said, “So, there’s the other side of the island . . .”

They grinned and took off, much to the dismay of the two older couples. Ironhide and Optimus leveled formidable glares upon the human commander about not offering _them_ the best spot on the island to be alone on, who gave them a very Prowl-like enigmatic look in return. “Optimus, I think you should bring Elita to the mainland to find a suitable alt-mode. _Maybe_ you should show her the Redwoods in California. I’ll fill out paperwork for a suitable leave of absence. Ironhide—”

“You’re a sneaky fleshling,” the large black mech rumbled, grinning. “I’m bringing my femme to meet yours.”

“Just no scarring my baby girl for life. Remember our deal.”

“Yes, yes,” the bodyguard chuckled.

“What deal?” Chromia demanded.

“That if anything squishes the squishie, _I_ get to help raise Annabelle. Humans can be messy when they’re young. She left food-encrusted fingerprints all over my interior when I first met her.”

The femme chortled, smiling and looking down at the humans again, patting her mech’s chest. Optimus turned quickly, then sighed and growled, “Oh, _slag_.”

“What?” Elita asked, knowing that tone from having to deal with difficult Senators.

“We’re not in the classified area.”

A chorus of various human curses in several languages greeted the new Autobot’s audios. The Twins, frankly, fled to the Autobot hangar, leaping over the security checkpoint and the humans that stood there. Thankfully, they were used to such antics, and didn’t bother trying to stop them, turning after them to yell at them to be careful. Sunstreaker, who was still in his brother’s chrome-colored form, snarled a biting curse that nobody corrected him for and slid off to keep an eye on the Idiot Twins. The rest of the first team shared weary gazes before drawing themselves up to their usual “dealing with the local government” aloofness. Elita, Chromia, Hound and Wheeljack all took cues from the other Autobots, especially those whom they were closest to and who would be equal in rank.

Optimus and Elita stood close enough to brush armor, her rose hues softly illuminated by the late-afternoon light. Each stood as if they were several times taller than their actual height, all but glowing in their shared strength and standing as the sole sane leaders of Cybertron. Ironhide and Chromia moved to flank their leaders, standing by their respective charges to look down at the approaching humans with distain. Ratchet and Wheeljack stood to one side as Medical/Engineering staff, Ratchet with his usual grouchy stature and Wheeljack with an inquisitive expression, but making sure to keep himself aloof like the rest of them. Hound stood behind everyone else, still in view, but with arms crossed and a neutral gaze watching the way that the liaison stalked out of the military SUV and glared up at Prime.

“What the _hell_ is the meaning of this?” Galloway demanded, glaring up at the taller being with a great deal of outrage written over every line of his diminutive form. “We have reports of impact of a hot landing for _more_ of your kind?! Are _these_ the interlopers that lit up our radar like the Fourth of July?!”

_:Does he know what hell he’s about to unleash?:_ Wheeljack asked Ratchet.

_:Him? Pah. Not a chance. I’m recording this to show to Prowl and Jazz. They haven’t seen what we’re about to see in at least a millennia or two.:_

“Is there a problem with other refugees coming to help us protect your planet from Decepticons?” Optimus asked calmly, not crouching to speak with the humans as he would with many of the military or civilians that were “in the know.” That was a privilege he used to show that he found them his equals. With _this_ brat, however, he liked to remind him that they were _not_ doormats nor simple weapons to aim at their enemies. They were individuals, warriors, from another planet that were _trying_ to help the humans.

“Yes! Yes, there’s a problem! You were supposed to have cleared it with _us_ , with the native sentient species of this world before you invited more to rain down on us!”

“Chairman Galloway, are you accusing me of _somehow_ willfully _neglecting_ to speak to the United States Government of a situation that I was _clearly_ unaware of?” Optimus demanded. “If you care to review video from any of your watchtowers in this area, you will see that we approached what turned out to be allies with defensive maneuvers.”

“It could all be an act! You could have known this for _months_! I’m going to be calling for a meeting with General Morshower about this!”

“There’s no need,” Elita stated, her voice shifting to become cold and hard. “I have already spoken with the man and he is reviewing the situation as we speak. You do not know me, little boy, but you will.” She stalked a pace forward, then walked around the man without saying anything more, simply studying him. “I am Elita-One, co-ruler with Optimus Prime of what remains of Cybertron’s people. This fine specimen of a mech is my mate, my love, my better half.” She dropped into a crouch frighteningly fast, glaring into Galloway’s now-shocked face as she used the _other_ tactic of crouching down to human-level: intimidation. “I don’t care if you disrespect him; you will learn to respect _me_ , and through _me_ you will not dare to disrespect those whom I am closely tied to. You will learn to respect the _office_ of a Prime, and of Prime’s Consort. I will _not_ tolerate your childish tantrums, human.” Straightening with the grace of a fighter, she walked back to her mech’s side and stood beside him evenly.

Optimus watched her with vague amusement written over his face. “Elita,” he murmured chidingly.

“You have known me for uncountable Earth years, my love, you _know_ I do not tolerate neither fools nor disrespectful children.” She looked down at Galloway. “And for _your_ records, Chairman Galloway, I led a group of five total, myself included, to land without notifying neither the Autobots that are on this front nor their leader, Optimus. If they had expected us, there would have been a grand welcoming committee awaiting our arrival and plans already in place for those on Earth to introduce those who have just returned to them to your planet and cultures. Trust me, little boy, when I say that if we had told our significant others that we were coming, _you_ would have known.”

“And just _who_ is the significant other of _who_?” he finally snarked back to the femme.

_:Elita, don’t mention Ratchet and ’Jack, or anyone who is not on the Diego Garcia roster. Please.:_

_:I suspect that you have reason.:_

_:They don’t know that we’re asexual, and you just told them that we have romantic ties to one another. I made the choice to neuter ourselves in a variety of ways so that we would be seen as inoffensive as possible to the humans, for a variety of reasons. Only a select handful who can be trusted implicitly understand certain points of our culture, such as Bonding, love and asexuality.:_

_:. . . the frag?!:_ Outwardly, she was calm and collected. “Optimus and myself, Ironhide and his mate Chromia, and Arcee and Springer, who have already gone off to . . . how would you put it, Ratchet?”

“Make out like teenagers?” the medic snickered. “She hasn’t seen him since just after her multi-form upgrade. That was . . . three-thousand-sixty-two Earth years ago.”

The humans from the government paled, one man in particular speaking up and out of turn. “So you really haven’t seen each other for _that long_?”

“Slightly less, for myself and Elita and our mechs,” Chromia said, her voice a throaty, earthy alto.

“Right, so what should we be expecting?” Lennox asked, as if he hadn’t just been plotting with the leaders to give them a bit of a honeymoon on Earth.

Optimus saw Lennox’s strategic move and heard Elita’s Spark-whisper of _~Brilliant young man there . . . he just turned what was a co-leadership plotting session into a clear “You’re the boss, you tell me what you need,” version of what he had been doing.~_

_~Primus, your Spark is so warm . . .~_

_~Focus.~_

Growling strictly in the mental realm and over their Sparkbond of a select words describing what he was going to do the moment he had her alone, he was rewarded by feeling her surprised anticipation and heard the subtle whirring of cooling fans activating. Optimus replied aloud, careful not to let his smug happiness into his tones after eons of practice, “I wish to show Elita what beauty Earth holds. It’s been a long time since we’ve been on such a life-filled, richly-populated organic planet. Arcee and Springer will find orders awaiting them to remain upon the island, and they _will_ have placement on the duty roster . . . in three or four days.”

Hound snickered, “Good way to cut them short, boss.” He grinned and crossed his arms over his chest. “You haven’t heard Springer griping until we entered the system and he picked up on Arcee’s signature.”

“Right. I’ll get you a couple planes to take up towards the mainland within three hours.” The NEST field-commander looked at his watch, blinked at the date, then muttered, “Huh. Well, looks like it’s going to line up with a two-week leave that I’ve had lined up for celebrating my daughter’s birthday and my anniversary, so what do you know. Ironhide! You want to come to the mainland with Chromia with me? I leave in just under twenty-four hours.”

_“You’re devious. No wonder my mate loves you like a brother,”_ Chromia chuckled into Lennox’s earpiece. She smiled to Ironhide. “Dearspark, please? He has a _child_. I would _love_ to meet the little one!”

“No human aside from a select few is allowed to have contact with Autobots!”

Chromia’s gaze snapped down to the quickly-losing-it governmental liaison. “I’m sorry. What was that? Are you refusing _me_ the right to meet with another wife of a military mech?” Her tone was smooth, silky, and filled to the brim of promise of retribution. “And if he and his wife are comfortable with us around their daughter, and _I_ haven’t seen a little one of _any_ race in well over a millennia . . .” She left the rest of her sentence hanging. Those who knew her, knew that the next words out of her mouth would have been fighting words.

“Lennox isn’t of _your_ kind, and you’re not of _our_ kind. They don’t have clearance to meet or talk with you!” Galloway’s face went from white to red with fury.

“He may as well be an Autobot for all that he’s done for us,” she snarled, stomping a foot irritably. “My mate tells me that he’s _personally_ saved his aft in battle no fewer than four times! He’s one of us in _Spark_ ,” she hissed, using Cybertronian for the term that referenced their souls, their essence. Ironhide moved to speak with his mate, but was cut off.

“Everyone, _stand down_! That’s an order!” A commanding tone filled the area, and Optimus blinked at the older man who walked up from his jeep. His tone went from military-ordering to calmly-speaking from one equal to another. “Prime, a pleasure to see you, as always.”

“General Morshower,” he replied, his voice warm as he took a step closer and crouched, extending his hand and feeling the touch of the human’s hand upon one fingertip. “It is good to see you again. Did you enjoy your vacation?”

“Best week of my life, and my wife agrees with me. I’m only passing through; you know the deal. But I got a call from a lovely-sounding lady, who I’m assuming is the one standing behind you?”

“Yes, General.” Turning, he beckoned Elita closer, and she crouched with considerably more grace than lethal intent. “My Sparkmate, Elita-One.”

“Sparkmate?” the general asked curiously, his tone saying that he had a suspicion of what it meant, and merely wanted affirmation of his guess.

“We don’t have gender-specific titles for our spouses, as our culture views spouses as complete equals,” Optimus replied diplomatically, skirting the issue of “we’re really asexual and don’t need two words for one concept.” He shrugged one shoulder. “But in short-hand, she is my soulmate and spouse.”

“You’re a wise lady, ma’am, and it’s a real honor to meet you.” He smiled formally, and then looked to them. “You two, and Ironhide and his mate, I’m assuming, will be returning to the mainland to do a bit of sightseeing and checking up on Bumblebee? I’m aware of his assignment, and I wish I could help you keep a closer eye on him, but he’s doing well on his own so far.”

“Bee’s not stationed here?” Elita asked sharply, blinking to her mate before resting hands on her hips, eyeing him warily.

“Er . . . no . . . he asked to be assigned to the boy as Guardian.”

“And you didn’t tell me this _why_?”

_~Dearspark, not now, please. Not aloud, not in front of the humans.~_

_~Fine. You and I are talking on the plane, then. No excuses.~_

_~Of course.~_

“Ah, of course,” she said, as if he had simply transferred a file to her for her review, instead of promising further explanation later. It was part of why she and Optimus worked so well together as mates, as political figures, and as leaders. They trusted each other to hold to their word, and could cover for each other seamlessly. “General, would you mind horribly, barring any emergencies, that I may steal Optimus away to see your homeland?”

“I would very much be honored that you would want to see America,” he replied graciously. “I lift off in two hours . . . Major Lennox, when does your leave start?”

“In a day, sir,” was the reply.

“Well, I’m extending your leave. Your return date is the same as it was before. Let’s bring these four to America and hope that the Decepticons don’t try to make things harder for us than they already are.”

“Sir, I don’t believe you can do that—” Chairman Galloway stated.

“I just did.” He held up papers in his hand from all the official venues, _including_ the President, whose seal was upon the topmost page. “Your plane lifts off in an hour, Chairman Galloway. Have a safe flight. Prime? If you and your people would please follow me, we’ll get them some ideas of appropriate alt-modes while we wait for the planes to be readied. To make things easier, we’ll just give you the same leave as the Major here, and you’ll be returning with him. We’ll give you the details shortly. Lennox! Get your team some rest! They’re doing a great job, but I don’t want tired soldiers out in the field!”

“Yes, sir!” the Major said, walking beside Ironhide and Chromia as they followed Optimus back towards the Autobot hangar. Once they were out of earshot of that thrice-damned liaison, he looked up at Ironhide. “You ever have anyone like him on Cybertron?”

“Nmph. Once. Another Prime,” Ironhide grumbled, huffing. “Classified from humans, you know the deal.”

“Sounds like he was a real pain in the ass,” Epps grumbled after jogging up to be beside his commanding officer. The whole “classified from humans” was a key-word meaning “you remember what we talked about on the ranch, and you know who I’m talking about now.” Pulling his phone out to check the local time, he muttered, “Right, so how many of the guidelines from your handbook were just broken today?”

“Handbook?” Chromia asked.

Ironhide smirked at Optimus’ back, seeing how their leader casually reached over and stroked a line down his Sparkmate’s arm. “Yeah. There’s a long name for it thanks to Optimus’ wicked sense of humor when he’s being formal, but we like to nickname that database, ‘Things We Don’t Tell Humans.’ And we broke at least three of them. But frag!” He reached over and took Chromia’s hand with a possessive movement that spoke of years of separation. “You always figure out the best way to break rules, darlin’.”

.o.

“Sam! Primus, Sam _get up_!”

Rolling over, the teen glared at his clock, which read somewhere in the hours of “Unholy.” “Bee?”

“Sam, c’mon, get up, get up, get up!”

“Nnnmmmppphhh, Bee, whhyyy?” he groaned, rubbing at his face. “It’s Saturday. Sleep-in. Movies with Kaela tonight.”

“I can’t tell you why, but I can _show_ you! C’mon! Out of bed!”

The human realized that his Guardian was looking through his window. “Shouldn’t you not be, you know, in mech form and on Dad’s lawn? He nearly skewered me last time you stepped on the lawn.”

“I’ll take care of it tomorrow. Get dressed! Meet me by the curb. Please?”

It was the entreating tone that did it. Sighing, he said, “What about my parents?” Getting out of bed and shoving jeans on over his boxers in the summer night, he grabbed a shirt, sniffed it to see if it was clean, winced, and tossed it back onto his floor. Two more attempts to find a clean shirt gave him what he was looking for.

“I’ve taken care of it. I left a message with your mother.”

And with that, intense blue optics were gone from his window, and Sam was left with only one option: follow his car. Sighing, grabbing his wallet and keys from his desk and clean socks out of a drawer and his shoes, he padded his way down the hall and out the back door, which wasn’t anywhere near his parents’ room. Sitting on a patio chair, he shoved his socks on, followed by old Converse All-Stars, which he left untied, just shoving laces in with his feet, and walked out to the curb where Bee sat idling. Walking around to the driver’s side, he got in with a controlled tumble, yawning and rubbing at his eyes.

“All right, Bee, I’m at your mercy. Where are we going?” He rested his hands on the wheel, but only as a point of contact between himself and his friend.

That was when he saw Optimus pulling up behind him. “Shit. Decepticons?”

“No, we’re just going somewhere that we can stand up. You can pass out again, if you need to, Sam.”

Turning in his seat to see the pseudo-Peterbilt rig following Bumblebee, he muttered, “Shouldn’t _you_ be following _him_? I mean, I know that’s how you guys work, right? Hierarchical mentality and all.”

“It depends upon the situation. Right now, he’s letting me lead him to a secure location. Even if I wasn’t showing him where to go, I’m his . . . his child, Sam. And because I’m his child, he’ll give me chances to lead.”

“So . . . would you inherit his leadership position as well?”

“Possibly. If I was called to the position, then yes.”

Within ten minutes, they were at the lookout, where Sam got out of Bee’s cab and looked at Optimus, then seeing the car _behind_ him for the first time. He stared in shock at the smooth but powerful lines, the distinctive body-type, and the fact that it was clearly hiding some serious punch under it all. It was a 2009 Ferrari Enzo, fresh out of Italy.

Then, when the car moved around Optimus, he saw the color: a rich rose, right between red and pink in that particular hue that is both softly feminine and yet wholly kickass. That put all the final pieces together in his mind and he felt like he had been playing football with Sideswipe and Sunstreaker and they had tackled him.

“Oh my God.”

Bumblebee transformed behind him, literally inches from the back of his head, and he didn’t even move as he saw the femme, _the_ femme, transform in a motion that was clearly imitative of Optimus’ first transformation in front of Sam. She crouched just as Optimus began to transform.

“You’re Elita-One.”

“And you’re Samuel Witwicky, the young man who saved my Sparkmate’s life.” She settled herself on the ground. “You’re much younger than your actions have dictated you to be, Sam, but it’s a wonderful thing to see.”

“It . . . is?” To say that Sam was overwhelmed by this development was a clear understatement. He was enjoying just seeing the femme-Creator of his best friend for the first time. He _never_ thought that he’d get this chance. Dimly, he was aware of Optimus transforming as well, but he was almost used to seeing the Peterbilt split, shift, change, and settle in his true form.

“It takes a much longer time for our children to grow into adults. Seventeen Earth years . . . do you know that it wasn’t until Bumblebee was almost fifty-five Earth years old before he was making the same decisions that you made last year?”

Sam turned to look up at his Guardian, his best friend, who had been inching closer to the femme through her small speech. Optimus settled down beside Elita, and Sam chuckled, his hand going out and patting golden-yellow armor firmly. “Now I know why you were pressuring me out the door. G’wan, say hi to your Mom, Bee.”

Optics brightening, he reached down to ruffle Sam’s hair before looking up at his Creator, chirping once.

“Oh, Sparklet, your voice—”

“Is absolutely fine,” he said in tones that were reminiscent of both his Creators, grinning and startling Elita with the fact that _he could speak_.

Elita yelped, darting up and embracing the grown Scout, who carefully twirled her around and settled her back on her feet, laughing. “First Aid brought a part that they had in stock on the ship, and after I beat the slag outta Jolt for trying to challenge me and got cleaned up from the fight, Ratchet reattached my arm and doorwing—”

“That wasn’t winning.”

“I had his spinal neural lines in my hand, Elita.” He forwarded her the files pertaining to the fight.

The femme blinked. “Well, I retract my prior statement. And you haven’t even finished your training under Prowl.”

“I will within the year.”

“You . . . how.”

“Optimus, have you told her _anything_?” Bumblebee asked, shocked, hearing Sam snicker softly and knowing that his charge was enjoying watching the small “family reunion.” So few families remained, that those who did continued to cling to each other with almost-suffocating tension. He smiled at Elita, whose hands were holding onto the edges of his armor over his shoulders, as if to reassure her processors through tangible evidence that her Sparkling, her grown child, was truly before her.

The Autobot leader, however, looked embarrassed for the first times since Sam had met the mech. Shocked, surprised, sure, Sam had seen those expressions. He’d seen teasing, saddened, troublemaking and unyielding, too. Especially the last expression. But Optimus? _Embarrassed?_ Oh, this was a treat!

“We’ve had . . . other things . . .”

“Oh, like what?” Bumblebee asked, his expression far too innocent to be anything but trouble. “Tangling cords and merging processors? Ow!” He ducked away from Elita, laughing softly as she advanced on him. Sam saw what was about to happen and scrambled over to Optimus, who had anticipated his move and picked him up, settling him upon a shoulder and standing while the mother and child initiated a sparring match.

“Is this considered normal parent-child bonding time?” Sam asked softly, knowing that alien ears were sharper than human ones.

“Physical fights? Not necessarily,” he replied, smiling at the human from the corner of his optic. “But competition, pressing boundaries in a friendly manner, and challenging a Caretaker certainly is how an Adult child works to prove himself independent.”

“So this is normal.”

“Yes, absolutely.” He smiled and chuckled as Elita tweaked one of Bee’s doorwings. “My Sparkmate is a master in several forms of martial arts, and a proficient in the rest.”

“Optimus . . . if you’ve been fighting for so long,” Sam asked as he watched the sparring match with no little worry for his Guardian, despite the fact that he knew Elita wouldn’t hurt the mech she raised, “what was that in Mission City?”

“Hm?” the Prime asked, turning to look at the boy on his shoulder, his confusion clear.

“I’ve seen Bee fight, I’ve seen you sparring with him from time to time, but . . . you’re moving differently _now_ than you had _then_.”

“Aah, that. Sam, you understand that even my species needs sleep, recharge.”

“Yeah. Bee likes at least four consecutive hours a night, and he’s cranky if he doesn’t have that amount. I’ve only seen him cranky twice, and that’s more than enough for me.”

“See if you can convince him to get six hours a night, please. He’s serious about guarding you, and that means that he’s still shorting himself during the night.” Optimus watched as Bee got a good hit in to Elita’s helm, hearing his Sparkmate cussing in shock as she tumbled to her aft.

Bee held his fists up to his face, guarding his Spark and his sensors, not moving closer for a moment, still in the sparring mode and watching her reactions closely. Shaking her helm and resetting sensors, she darted up and got _through_ his defenses and _tossed_ the slightly-larger mech overhand and over the lip of the overlook, hands on hips as she watched him tumble down the hill. “And don’t try that again until you can make sure you can take me down for more than a joor!”

“Yes, ma’am!” Bee called back up.

Sam chuckled. “So what does recharge have to do with Mission City?”

“When we’re low on recharge, or have been running too long without a full recharge and defrag cycle, it’s the same process with humans when they short themselves: reaction times are down, even misfiring, and energy runs low. For every fifty-six hours, we need an unbroken nine-hour recharge and defrag. Bee does both every night in two-hour bursts, making sure to defrag different processor and memory core sectors at a time. It’s how he’s such a successful scout, but it’s a bad habit he learned from Prowl.”

“I’ll have a talk with him. He might take it better from me.”

“Mm. On that note, Sam, what are you going to do about college?”

Oh, this was _so_ something he didn’t want to talk to Optimus about. “I’ve been accepted to an Ivy League school on the East Coast. I’m still going to go to it. Government said that they’re paying for half of it because of Mission City and all.”

“And what of Bumblebee?”

“You guys gossip worse than old ladies over tea,” Sam grumbled, pulling his legs up and wrapping his arms around his knees. “I want a normal life, Optimus. I want to be just another face, just another student in a crowd. I don’t want to be the kid whose cover can be blown because of an over-exuberant Guardian. I mean, don’t get me wrong, because I love Bee. He’s a great friend. He’s my _best_ friend. But freshmen can’t have cars on campus. And I’m keeping him from working with Lennox and you guys on NEST. He misses fighting, I know he does.”

“Sam,” Optimus murmured, “He wants you _safe_. You may always be a target for Decepticons. You killed Megatron.”

“And you have endeared yourself to my son and my mate,” Elita said as she walked closer, having helped Bumblebee back up to the top of the overlook. “That makes you family to me, at the very least. In a broad sense of the word.” Smiling up at the boy, she whispered, “I know you’re still a teenager, and you’re still young. But please remember something: Don’t make your decisions based solely upon what _you_ want. That is a luxury none of us can afford right now.”

Sam looked down at his hands, then to Bumblebee, whose gaze was showing everything that Sam needed to see. The young mech shrugged and said levelly, “We’ll talk later about it, Sam.” Smiling, he asked Elita, “Have you seen a sunrise yet?”

“No. Optimus has kept me distinctly busy for the last three mornings.”

And there was the embarrassed expression on the Autobot leader’s face all over again. Sam laughed and relaxed, grinning as they turned to the East. Optimus handed him off to Bee, where he settled comfortably on a shoulder again and relaxed. Even though he wanted Bee with him, there were just too many damn things that could go wrong.

As the sun rose over the horizon, lighting the landscape and causing a breath of awe from Elita, he realized that just didn’t want Bee hurt by idiot students. The only way to protect his protector was to put him with others who could keep him safer.

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Sixteen pages of FLUFF. Ish. Maybe. Something of the sort. There’s some plot seeds in there, too. Elita and Chromia were demanding their mates, and I’m really making sure to work things so that ROTF and DOTM won’t have many issues working with what’s become a bit of an AU. Not **terribly** so, but eh, it happens when you’re taking artistic liberties. Either way, the other two movies will be factored into the timeline of this story._

_Also, in the last chapter, part of the airport scene was Writer’s Revenge. Little man in the Camaro? Ex-boyfriend. Remember folks, don’t piss off medics or writers! The former know how best to hurt you in the now, and the latter know how best to make sure your reputation is forever ruined._

_Song is: “Before It’s Too Late” by Goo Goo Dolls . . . because it captures something of the relationships that the Autobots have with their significant others. It’s got that sorta vibe that says, “this is real, this is awesome, this is an undeniable reality.”_


	32. Revenge Arc 4: Battle of Erishkigal

“Try this.”

“I _told_ you, I’m not trying any of it until you can prove it’s a stable mixture!”

“Sideswipe. _Try_ it.”

“Sunstreaker. _No_.”

Elita sat with Iris upon her lap, playing a simple hand-game with the Sparkling without watching what she was doing. Her primary optics were focused upon the Sparkling’s twin Caretakers, who were hovering over the energon distillation manifold, pushing a sample-sized cube back and forth between them.

“I’ve tried it, but _you’re_ the one with the taste for fine energon!” the golden twin stated bluntly, shoving the vial back towards his silver other half. He was on a week’s leave under the guise of a routine scouting assignment, and had repainted himself before arriving at the ranch to keep confusion down. Optimus was being sneaky with his assignments in the last month. Elita-One liked it when her mech was sneaky. He got creative. And he had surprised her when he arrived at the ranch without warning one day in early June. It was now early July, a month and a half before Sam went to college. Bumblebee had confided in her that he was sure Sam was going to try to leave him behind.

“Bring it here,” she said imperiously, with a hint of irritation in her voice. They’d been at it for almost fifteen minutes. “I’ll try it.”

They stared at her in shock.

“Do neither of you remember my edicts regarding high grade tasting when the war began? Officers taste and see if it’s good enough to give to the troops? Purely selfish, I’ll admit, but bring me the sample, or I’ll come get it from you myself.”

Considering that she was able to beat the two of them blindfolded (and had done so three times _quite_ publicly, once in recent history), she wasn’t shocked when Sunstreaker glided over and handed her the sample. Shifting Iris to her free hand and holding her out for Sunstreaker to take, the femme drew in a slow, deep breath of the high grade. It was warmer in scent than anything from Cybertron. “What’s the chemical makeup?”

Sunstreaker spouted out scientific terms in their native tongue.

“And you’re using local metals as spice?”

“Absolutely.”

“Anything organic?”

“Yes, some plant matter that would add a hint of underlying flavor, something to remind us that we’re on an organic planet.”

“What’s it called? I love it.”

“Cinnamon.”

She took a sip, rolling the liquid around her glossa expertly, lightly flicking the energon to the back of her mouth and then to her tank. It settled with a warmth and a gentle buzz at mixing with normal energon. “Interesting. How did you gather the energy needed?”

“Solar power. Their sun is filled with an _amazing_ amount of power, and they don’t even know how to _harness_ it properly. Solar power, along with non-toxic naturally-occurring propellants, could give them everything they need. That’s how I created this.”

“Mm. So as it is, so as it was. Yet humans are still a young species, greedy, and they don’t understand the limitations of their world. They desire power and wealth, and yet, they are destroying their planet for those two principles alone. They will learn, Sunstreaker, as we have.” Shrugging, Elita took another sip, enjoying the foreign tastes immensely. “We have much that we can teach them, but Optimus agreed to the various governments’ demand that we be classified, in hiding, for the time being.”

“It’s a foolish move,” Prowl grumbled, taking a seat beside the femme he helped train. She passed him the vial of the recent test, returning to playing with Iris while Sunstreaker watched the Second-in-Command sip, pause, sip again, and then seem to shift and relax, doorwings settling lower in appreciation. “Primus, this is exceptional high grade.”

The Twins’ jaws dropped as they processed the high praise from the Praxian. Elita laughed and asked, “Never heard him say that before?”

“Never on a _test_ vial!” Sunny whispered.

“Damn, hand it over!” Sideswipe darted over, taking the vial from Prowl’s outstretched hand, tasting it carefully, then sinking to sit with the other two. “That’s it. I like this brew. You’ve out-done yourself, Sunny.”

“I have need of your brewing talent,” Prowl said, fighting to keep a smile from lighting his optics or his face up. “I will need enough mid-grade Polyhex to have one small cube for each Autobot, and enough mid-grade Praxian for a small cube for each as well. And that in high-grade concentration.”

Elita, Sideswipe, and Sunstreaker, all looked to each other in confusion before the femme asked, “Why’s that?”

He grinned and leaned in closely, “Because I’m asking Jazz to Bond with me tonight. And I’ll need that energon for the traditional drinks of the Bonding ceremony.”

.o.

Hudson was asleep in the crook of Barricade’s arm. Smiling at his Creators, the grown mech murmured, “Maybe once the war is done for good, I can see about adopting one of the bratlings.”

Jazz chuckled deep in the back of his throat at the idea of his Sparkling caring for a Sparkling. “Which one would you choose, if ya only had this current lot t’ choose from?”

“Torch, most definitely. He may be a troublemaker, but he has a firm Spark. I don’t think that I have the right aptitude for raising a delicate Sparkling.” He got a subtle ping from Prowl’s Spark, and sighed, giving Jazz the Cybertronian version of “cute puppy eyes.” “Can I please bring Hudson to recharge with me? I’ll be with the Twins and Blue! We’ll behave!” The pitch of his voice was similar to the ones he had used when he was a Youngling, trying to wheedle his way into getting together with his friends.

“Considerin’ that th’ worse the four of ya will be getting up to would be an overdue prank . . .” Jazz said with a snicker, “G’wan. Get. Ya haven’t recharged among family in a long time, Caders, an’ I think ya need it.”

Standing with the Sparkling, the Autobot spy murmured sultrily, “Don’t wrench your cables, you two!”

“Primus! Get!” Jazz aimed a kick at Barricade’s ankle, but the mech agilely darted out of the way with a laugh. When the younger black-and-white had disappeared into the large single-room housing barracks where the rest of the Caretakers and Sparklings were , Jazz huffed. “That mechlin’ got his connivin’ ways from _you_.”

“Oh, and you being an undercover cop had _nothing_ to do with it,” Prowl replied dryly, standing as well and taking a step before turning to look at his lover.

Snickering, Jazz shrugged and walked with Prowl into the night.

.o.

“So. I know what my Caretakers are going to be doing tonight.”

First Aid, who was _not_ comfortable with Barricade, was watching stoically. Kup was a little more accepting of the child of two of the three highest-ranking officers in the Autobot army, and had been slowly won over due to the simple fact that Barricade was genuinely doting upon his little brother at every chance he got. So the old mech leaned in. “Aside from interfacing . . . ?”

“That’s a _given_ , considering what Prowl’s up to.”

Elita leaned in over Barricade’s shoulder. “He told me today.”

“He’s going to be asking Jazz to Bond with him. And _I_ want neither of them to have to worry about planning the ceremony.”

Sunstreaker snickered and grinned to his twin. “About slaggin’ time that they took care of this!”

Banachek and the two new humans looked lost at all this. “I, uh, hate to sound uneducated, but _why_ is this so important?”

“They don’t _know_?” Elita asked.

“Nope. Not yet. They were just put on the list when they arrived here.”

“Well.”

Settling down, Elita grinned and was about to say something when another form opened the door and poked her head in. “ _There_ you all are. We have new people coming to live on the ranch.”

“Chromia?” Kup asked in shock. He hadn’t seen the femme since she and Elita separated from the main Autobot crew with a few ships to hunt down some of the Decepticon criminals.

Grinning, the femme replied, “What, you think that I was gonna let Elita wander off on her lonesome and get to see _her_ mate without bringing me to see _mine_? Not a chance!”

“Sparkling, you’ve _grown_.”

“Thanks, old-timer. But back to news. Sarah and Will decided that it was best for everyone if they came and settled down here. Meaning that Annabelle is gonna be raised with the Sparklings. Sarah about had a _fit_ of mother-glee when she saw Faust with Dana, but I think she thinks that he’s a Youngling already.” Chuckling, Chromia walked into the room completely. “Ironhide and I towed all their stuff here, and they’ll be selling their own ranch over the next few months.”

“So what’s the plan?” First Aid asked curiously, head tilted to one side.

“What do you mean, ‘what’s the plan,’ lad?” Kup asked, frowning.

“Are we going to hunker down and solidify this location as a bunker? How many mechs are going to be stationed here?” he asked, looking around at the half-dozen that were around him.

“Optimus wants all non-combatants here,” Elita stated firmly, “under the protection of those who are willing to lay their lives down to protect them. We are, effectively, hiding from the United States Government.”

“Literal ‘illegal aliens,’ if you want to put it technically,” Chromia piped up with _far_ too much glee in her voice.

Nodding, Elita seemed to be enjoying the plotting just as much as her bodyguard. “Precisely. The Sparklings are a secret, and those of us who landed recently will be making it look like we are only pausing here before continuing on to hunt more Decepticons. To all appearances, we will leave. And for some of us, we _will_ leave. Hound requested scouting Mars with Springer, and they will be doing a full survey of that planet to see if the Decepticon presence is still there as well as what the planet can support. If it is suitable, we will relocate _there_ if the humans do not wish us upon _their_ planet. The Americans can’t claim the Earth’s moon as theirs; it would be ludicrous if one single nation tried to claim another _planet_.”

“So Mars is your backup plan,” Banachek murmured softly.

“Yes. Your planet will still have our protection, however, we will be a little farther out of reach from you.” Then she winked. “But if you don’t know that we’re here . . .”

“Are all your kind like this?” Peace asked through a laugh, Viridian firmly in recharge and limp in her arms, clicking away. He had instantly taken to her, stuck to her side most of the first day that they had been around each other, and since that first night, wouldn’t sleep anywhere but beside her on her bunk. After the third day, she had taken Viridian and walked to Optimus, unafraid of his height or his military status. She approached him as she would someone who held great cultural significance, but was also someone that she knew in her soul was as much a priest as any she’d seen. She had asked him if she could adopt Viridian. The child had keened in happy shock and happiness, and Optimus had whispered “Of course.”

Her Sparkling son was a handful, but he was worth every moment of it.

First Aid chuckled. He adored Peace like a sister, knowing that Ratchet had seen their complementary personalities and was pairing them up in the way that Ironhide and Lennox were paired, as well as Sam and Bee: comrades, friends, and he was informed in no unclear tones that he was to be her Guardian if things got rough. “In what way?”

“You all have façades, plans within a plan, and two faces. Not in a bad way, mind you,” she hurried to say, stroking Viridian’s helm once when he shifted in recharge. “But you have a professional face and a personal face, and not everyone sees the personal side, only close friends.”

Smiling, Elita replied, “From my studies on American, European and some Asian cultures, isn’t that what your kind do as well? I look at it more like we have _levels_ , instead of a distinct amount of faces. When trust is gained, and it’s not misplaced, we allow the individual in question to come to a deeper level of trust.”

“I have a _perfect_ example,” Kup snickered, leaning back against the wall that his berth was perched against. “Or three.”

“Go for it.”

“Peace, you’ve worked hand-in-hand with Ratchet on missions. When you first met him, he was a bit stand-off-ish, a bit grouchy, but professional and cool in most cases.” He waited for her nod, then continued. “When did he throw his first temper tantrum around you?”

“About two months in, almost two weeks after I had shoved half of my body into one of the Idiot Twins to reattach his main energon pump line to his Spark after he took a bad hit. He had been working on the other twin, reinstalling a completely _new_ coolant pump.”

“You proved your worth to him in that moment,” First Aid said with a grin. “Betcha he was snarling at you to keep your hands off even while he was telling you to do _something_ to keep the kid online.”

“Just about like that.”

“Point is,” Kup said with a smile, “from there on in, he trusted your abilities, and your personality. He could trust you to tell him to go to the Pit, you were saving someone’s life, and he could deal with it later. You went from being ‘useful human’ to being ‘possible apprentice material,’ and _that’s_ when he starts to show you who he really is.”

“He’s an angry mech,” she whispered, her voice a little sad and her mouth turned up into an empathetic smile. “And is tired of this war and tired of patching people up.”

“This is the second war he’s been a CMO for,” Kup affirmed softly. “And our first civil war. He may be an angry, grouchy mech, but he hates that he has to defend himself and his patients from our own kind. He’ll shoot when he needs to, but he’s tired of this war. We’re _all_ tired from this war, lass.”

There was silence for a long moment following that statement. Chromia broke it with a happy, excited whisper, “So, are we going to plan for a Bonding Ceremony, or aren’t we?”

Smiles broke across both human and Cybertronian faces and planning commenced.

.o.

Sam winced at the suddenly-dead phone line. Sighing, he put his cell down on Bee’s passenger seat, holding onto the wheel as they ran parallel to New Mexico’s northern border. Thankful for the tinted windows, he pushed his head against the headrest and grimaced. Mikaela was pissed. She hadn’t had any plans this weekend, and it was three weeks before he was going to be setting off to college. While yes, she had helped with the whole “saving the world” thing in Mission City, she was also not given the semi-official security clearance that Sam was. She didn’t know about the whole dozen Autobots and the fourteen Sparklings. She wasn’t allowed to know.

So many secrets. Sam wondered if Major Lennox had any trouble like this with his wife.

“She’s former military, from a military family,” Bee murmured, causing Sam to blink and realize that he had muttered his musing aloud.

“So . . . they don’t ever have issues like this?”

“Oh, they do. I’ve overheard Lennox quite a few times trying to reason with his wife. But it’s a good thing for them. They thrive on communication, and always work things out. They aren’t perfect, but they’re perfectly matched with each other.” Bumblebee seemed to be giving a mental shrug at his words. “They complement each other.” He paused, this one a bit longer than his prior momentary breath of silence. “Sam, you don’t always meet your Sparkmate on the first relationship. Mikaela’s a special lady, but . . . she might not be able to handle the fact that you _can’t_ talk about everything with her.”

Sam closed his eyes, trusting Bee to drive as they worked their way towards Oklahoma. “I love her, Bee. I really do. But I can’t tell her yet. It’s . . .”

“You feel that it’s not time to tell her.”

Three heartbeats passed, and Sam blurted, “You ever been in a relationship?”

Bumblebee chuckled and murmured softly, “Three relationships. The first ended because she was part of the Militia, and followed Megatron blindly. The second was a mech who was assigned to a different function in this war, and he and I agreed that even though we were close, and even though we could still find ways to see each other, the danger would just be too great. The third . . . I was promoted above him, and he didn’t like that I out-ranked him, even if he wasn’t in my direct chain of command. He’s just a bit younger than I am, and . . . it was a rather public, ugly affair when he rejected me.”

“Crap, Bee, I’m sorry.”

The yellow scout chuckled and seemed to almost shake his head. “Don’t be. It hurt at the time, but that was long before humans stopped living in tents, nevermind modern society. Hot Rod and I shared a few things: youth, rank, and a desire to fight to protect those whom we answered to.”

“So you weren’t very serious about your relationship with . . . him.”

“. . . you’re unsettled.”

Blushing, Sam nodded.

Bumblebee chuckled and seemed to understand why his charge was still feeling weird about the way that they spoke so candidly about their relationships with him. “Remember our talk about pronouns?”

“How they don’t fit?”

“Right. It’s easier to say than humans trying to mangle our words. We just simply don’t have the words for ‘he’ or ‘she,’ and you don’t speak modem, if I remember Epps’ comment correctly.” He sighed, drifting through lanes and traffic easily. “Remember that we have no genders. We have no need to reproduce the way that humans do. It’s about finding someone with the right soul, the right Spark.” Bumblebee’s voice turned mournful. “And with so few of us remaining after our war . . . Finding a Bondmate with the fairy-tale ending doesn’t look like it’s ever going to happen.”

“Fairy-tale, like . . . Jazz and Prowl?”

“Yes. Seeing your Sparkmate and _knowing_. . . Primus, I can’t even _imagine_ what that’s like.”

They rode in silence for five miles before Sam asked softly, “Off of the topic . . . but . . . do you know what happened to Terratron, Bumblebee?”

The young officer replied pensively, “No. And nobody knows, either. He disappeared with Sentinel Prime on the Ark, before the final battles of the war.”

“That worries me.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

.o.

Lennox cuddled his daughter close to his chest, kissing her forehead before tickling her and then setting her down on the ground to play a game of chase. Chromia, hands on hips, smiled at the human man’s back, then crouched beside the warrior wife of the soldier. “I feel like I’m watching my Sparkmate back in our early years.”

Sarah grinned ruefully, shaking her head. “I can’t imagine Ironhide being anything but large and tough. He doesn’t seem like the sort to be much of a gentle father.”

“Oh, he was. Several times over, in fact. Our femmes, daughters, were all daddy’s girls, and our sons were all rough-and-tumble miniature Ironhides.” Smiling, the silvery-blue femme settled upon the ground a bit more firmly. “Ironhide spoke of you with high praise . . . but he worried for the Bond between yourself and Will. I . . . am not yet used to your culture, but I wished to extend myself towards you, even as an non-judging, open audio.”

Gaze drifting up the powerful form until it met gentle and firm optics, Sarah whispered, “I’m not sure if I can live with the stress that comes from knowing that he’s out there with the Autobots, fighting the enemy. He could _die_. He could be seriously injured.”

“If he was injured, would you love him any less?” Chromia asked softly.

“It’s the stress of anticipation. I don’t know when he’s going to be able to tell me something, or not tell me something. He said he couldn’t even tell me _why_ he wanted me to move out here. He just said that he _did_ and that . . . it was something he couldn’t talk about, but that I’d understand when I came here.”

Chromia smiled softly, leaning her head down and whispering, “He has not misplaced his trust in you as a worthy soulmate, Sarah Lennox. _Trust_ him.”

“But . . . why? I mean, I’ve talked with Dana and Faust, but isn’t he just one of the child warriors that the ’cons employed, like Wheelie?”

Chromia didn’t reply to that, and she didn’t feel like she had to, as there was a small, young blip on her radar that was coming closer.

“’Mia?” a small voice asked gently from around a corner. “’Mia, bad dream . . .”

Clicking and making soft _shuuussshhhh_ -ing noises, Chromia ushered Fidget up into her arms, pressing her helm against the small one’s own pearl armoring, then settled her down on her thigh. “Here. Safe now, yes?”

“Safe with you.” Large red optics blinked at Sarah before asking, “Safe with her?”

Sarah was staring in shock as Lennox began to walk over from under one of the floodlights, carrying their daughter in one arm, and another of the small Transformers in his other arm, their small helm resting on his broad shoulder with optics off. Annabelle was staring at them. The three-year-old girl was calm, blinking, before she reached out and patted one small amber-colored arm. These children didn’t _look_ like warriors . . . they didn’t look like they were anything but _babies_.

Sepia’s sleepy red optics snapped online and blinked twice before she stared at the child again. Ironhide followed behind the human he was assigned to, his lipplates quirked up in a rare smile. Annabelle said quietly, just loud enough for Sarah to hear her, “What yo’r name?”

“Sepia,” came a soft reply.

“Seepa!”

“Sep _ia_.”

“Seepa! Daddy, Seepa a fwiend?”

Will chuckled and walked back to Sarah, moving in to kiss her cheek gently before answering. “Yes. Sepia’s a friend. She’s your age, too, Annabelle.”

“She _fwee_?! She _big_!”

“Why doesn’t Annabelle speak properly?” Sepia asked softly, looking up at Will and Sarah, worry written all over her young face.

It was Ironhide who replied, earning a squeak and a squeal of glee from the Lennox child who half-threw herself over her father’s shoulder to reach for the large black Autobot. “Annabelle is a human, and they learn differently than we do. They learn by doing, by repetition.” He chuckled and reached one large finger over gently to the human child, feeling her hug it with her chubby little arms. “Hey, squirt.”

“Humans don’t have datapack downloads? How do they become so . . . wise?”

“Non-linear thinking and intuition that’s akin to a Spark-gift of the same sort. All humans have it to varying degrees, and there are some who even think like we do, in very linear, mathematical fashions,” Chromia replied, having soothed Fidget back down into recharge.

Sarah chuckled, and reached out to gently touch the back of Sepia’s hand, curious about what was clearly an Autobot child. Sepia blinked at Sarah’s hand, then looked up at the woman with a soft “meep” of subtle curiosity. Lennox smiled to his wife. “These are two of fourteen Sparklings that survived Sector Seven’s experiments. We have nine here now, and are just waiting for the go-ahead to get the other five. We have three more located and under surveillance.”

Banachek walked up to the small family and their guardians in the early dawn, his voice a welcome balance of experience and regret. “I found the files for one of the experiments that Optimus requested. Ratchet saw a notation on one of the files. What I counted as fourteen? Thirteen. Thirteen Sparks that were brought to life.”

“Then . . . why fourteen Sparklings?” Will wondered out loud.

“By His hand . . . _Spark-twins_ ,” Chromia whispered, using the Cybertronian verbiage. She grinned broadly to Ironhide, who translated, “Spark-twins, like Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.”

Sarah looked at her husband, seeing his eyes pleading silently with hers for understanding. Oh, she understood all right. She knew, like any mature female of any species, what it was all about. “You’re protecting the Sparklings. _That’s_ why you’re fighting.”

“Yes,” he breathed. “I can’t let them come to harm, Sarah. I can’t sit back, knowing that I can _do_ something to help them.”

“So then why did you bring me here?”

The man smiled and whispered, “To keep _you_ safe. Something’s brewing. We all feel it, we all know that there’s gonna be something happening soon, but nobody knows for sure what it is, or when it’ll happen. Gut instincts. I want you safe, and there’s no safer place to be than among the Autobots and their allies. Chromia asked to personally be your Guardian. Elita, Optimus’ Sparkmate, is also going to be staying here.”

“Will,” Chromia said chidingly, grinning.

“Okay, she demanded. Nicely.”

“That’s right, my femme did,” Ironhide stated proudly, chuckling and reaching over to touch her cheek with one finger, stroking along one of the plates with casual intimacy.

Sarah watched the interaction, then looked to her husband. “You’ve been talking with Ironhide.”

He smiled and kissed Annabelle’s forehead, smiling down at her and getting a massive hug in return. “Yeah. He and I shared a lot of common experiences over the last few years.”

“Bein’ away from our soulmates hurts like the Pit,” Ironhide affirmed, reaching down to poke at the Army Major’s back gently.

Somehow, Sarah Lennox knew that if Will was an Autobot, he would have just received a rough “love tap” from the old black mech. She felt a small smile begin to spread over her face, seeing how integral her husband was to this operation. It was all about the levels of trust that were open and able to be seen. This was what they would be showing to the public if, one day, the Autobots were allowed to come out into the public. The easy camaraderie in and of itself was amazing to see.

“Will . . . I’m going to stay here. With Annie. You’re saying that these . . . these children . . .”

“These are the last children of their _race_ , Sarah. And . . . they don’t have a world left. It’s a dead planet.”

Sarah looked up at the grave metal faces around her, seeing that two more had joined them, eerily silent. She knew from references that “big man” was their leader, and that could _only_ be the mech with the loud paint-job. A smaller form stood beside him, her rose hued armor somehow not hiding her warrior nature with a delicate façade. Optimus Prime and his Sparkmate, Elita. The woman reached for the burden in her man’s arms, and he started to pass Annabelle to her when he paused and realized that she was going to hold the Sparkling.

Sepia curled into her arms in the liquid, catlike fashion that all the Sparklings adopted while around humans. Sarah felt the thrumming of small systems, a faint pulse underlying everything. With a sigh, the woman whispered, “I’ll stay, Will.”

He didn’t try to hide the mist gathering in his eyes. He knew what she was really saying.

“I’ll stay with you.”

.o.

It was almost midday when Sam and Bee pulled up to Dana’s ranch, hearing children streaking through the backyard with squeals of laughter. Human voices, familiar ones, underlined the voices of the children, with the booming laughter of many of the mature Autobots blanketing the entirety of what had to either be a water fight or an obstacle course, heck, maybe even both combined. Walking around the main house with Bumblebee rolling behind him on his heels, he turned the corner and then leapt into the fray, intercepting a water gun out of midair that Dana was tossing to someone. The “den-mother” was looking a _lot_ healthier, stronger in some fashion, and she was wielding a hose with a spray attachment at the Sparklings. He figured that he’d ask her later about that.

Sam darted into the fray with a yell, squirting Will in the ear, and getting himself mobbed by dripping and soaking wet Sparklings that were happy to see him. Even in the middle of the vast battle that was thankfully held on a concrete patio, he would be tugged at and a Sparkling would present its helm for him to press his forehead to. Even Iris, who was seeming to slowly start to come out of her shell, did this with him. They greeted him as one of their own, and that soothed and filled something in his heart, something he didn’t know he needed.

When the waterfight was done, he stripped his shirt off and looked at the other men while doing so, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Epps was ripped. Lennox was toned. Hell, even the sniper, Langley, was in shape.

Sam Witwicky was scrawny. Ish.

Sarah Lennox, who he recognized from pictures, was walking up to the Sparklings with towels in her hands, a soggy-bottomed daughter following after her with a towel going straight to her father. When the Army wife brought Sam one, she grinned and thwacked his shoulder twice. “Will! He reminds me of you in high school!”

“I was never that tiny!”

“Naw, man, you were,” Epps said with a laugh. “I’ve seen pictures!”

“Aw, shaddup.”

Leaning a bit closer, Sarah whispered to Sam, “You’ve got time to compete with those three. Not all women like a man who has more pecs than he has brain cells.” Leaving the snickering teen behind, she began to pass out cleaning cloths to the Sparklings, who were helping each other dry off. Sam looked up at Bumblebee, who was shaking himself like a dog to get some water off of his armor. He blinked, grinned, and settled on the ground next to Ironhide, who was helping Chromia get herself clean. Sam blinked, looking up at Optimus, whose optics were off while Elita was elbow-deep in his chassis. As he watched, she pulled out a filter that was _caked_ with muck, then _glared_ at the mech she was Bonded to, causing his armor to flatten contritely, even if he didn’t activate his optics.

Looks like the women packed a tongue-lashing no matter what planet they were from. When he was beside his best friend, Sam asked, “Uh, Bee . . . _only the couples are doing this_.”

The child of the Prime looked around, then pointed to Hound and Kup. “Nope.” He moved his hand to point to First Aid and Bluestreak. “And nope.”

“Where’s Jazz and Prowl? And the twins?”

“Getting ready for tonight. They started the process of preparation at dawn. We play, and celebrate, while they prepare to merge their Sparks, which isn’t an easy process the first time around, but from what I’ve heard, it’s still pleasurable.”

“Awh, _Bee_!” Sam facepalmed, hearing adults laughing at his reaction.

Bumblebee continued. “The whole ‘not seeing each other all day’ is part of the Praxian ceremony, which is almost like some human traditions and superstitions. The party will be part Polyhex, part Iacon in nature.”

“Meanin’ it’s gonna be a _riot_ ,” Ironhide said over his shoulder, grinning broadly. “Been waitin’ for _centuries_ for these two ta Bond!”

“A riot?” Sam asked, sitting on a human-sized concrete bench that hadn’t been there the last time he visited to pull off socks and shoes. He was glad that he had chosen to wear shorts on the way here and had packed up the semi-formal wear that his mother insisted he bring.

“High grade,” Elita replied, wiping her fingers off with a rag and moving to press her cheek against her mate’s affectionately before flaring her armor and turning her back, allowing him to help her with cleaning some hard-to-reach places. “Humans can’t have it, but Dana was helpful in finding the equivalents of what we’re doing. Jazz made one requirement before he and Prowl left the planning up to me,” she said with a grin, optics half-lit with the pleasure of feeling the stiff bristles of a brush cleaning her struts. “He wanted the humans included in the festivities, and to _feel_ included as equals for what we’ll be doing.”

“So . . . that means alcohol?” Sam asked half-worriedly.

“Yes, but you’ll have less than the other adults who are of the age to drink.”

“Elita, I mean this in the kindest possible way, but my mom will _kill_ me if she finds out that I’m drinking.” He worked as he talked and listened, climbing Bee’s frame and starting the cleaning on his shoulders, toes gripping the armor agilely. He and Miles used to climb every tree between their houses when they were kids, and the practice helped him in this particular instance.

The femme blinked, then looked to her child, who warbled-chirp-whirred something. Snickering, Elita murmured, “She’s not as bad as I was to Bumblebee when it came to high grade.”

“Uh . . .”

“I already put it by Judy, and she said that so long as I make sure that you don’t get too tipsy or drunk, that you’d be fine. You can take sips, but no downing anything.” He helped Sam back to the ground so that he could get a clean bucket of water, shaking his head and saying, “He’s as bad as _I_ was when it comes to obeying his mother.”

Elita chuckled, then blinked at hearing the bucket dropping from behind the water shed. If you were standing behind the water shed, you could see behind the two new barracks that they had constructed. She looked to Bluestreak, who was openly grinning, and that was when she realized that Sam was about to be pranked.

Barricade’s gravelly, dark voice said, “Boo.”

Samuel James Witwicky screamed like an eight-year-old little girl.

Lennox and Epps went into full-battle mode at the girly shriek that Sam gave out as he rocketed out from behind the shed and ran full-out back to Bumblebee. They saw the red-opticked mech straighten up from his crouch, laughing and walking calmly to crouch before Bumblebee, hearing Sam still shrieking for someone to shoot him. Optimus waved his hand at the two human warriors, rolling his optics at the antics of the younger generation. He reached out and tapped the back of his fist against Barricade’s arm.

“Leave the boy alone.”

“If I leave him alone, he’ll continue to be frightened of me.”

“OhmyGawdwillsomeonejustKILLHIM?!”

_“Will you all be quiet?!”_ Prowl roared, getting laughter from Jazz and the Twins. “Primus above! Cade! Stop terrorizing the boy!”

“I only said ‘boo’!”

“Son . . .” Prowl snarled warningly, and it was instantly clear where Barricade got some of his verbal patterns from.

“Yes, yes, I know.” He huffed and shook his head, grinning, staring down at the human with clear amusement upon his face. “Stop looking at me like I’m going to eat you.” Looking up at the blue optics in Bumblebee’s face, he said, “Good shot at the power plant. I wasn’t expecting you to use your cannon.”

“Which is why I used it in the first place. How’d that heal up?” Bumblebee fearlessly reached out with his free hand to inspect Barricade’s left shoulder.

“Decently. Decepticon medicine leaves much to be desired, but I found a ‘dropped’ medi-pack with some nanites that just so _happened_ to have your name on the box.”

“Can’t have you disfigured for life; your parents would cause _me_ great harm. You’re all shined up, too.”

Hunching down, he muttered, “The Twins and Blue ganged up on me last night, all right? I didn’t have a choice when Sunstreaker is perched on my chest and Bluestreak is holding one arm still so that Sideswipe can clean out my systems.”

“Oooh, wish I was there for that. What happened afterwards? Daisy-chain? Were you pretty enough for it?”

Ironhide snorted a laugh, Bluestreak snickered, and Elita and Chromia outright laughed. Barricade retorted, “Jealous?”

“Of a group interface?” Bee tapped his chin with one finger, then shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Woah, woah, _woah_ , guys, really?!” Epps stated in shock. “What the _hell_?!”

“It’s pleasure, affirmation, affection and a way to unwind,” Barricade stated before anyone could say anything else. “You’re on the list of people who are cleared to know about all of our culture. Unlike with humans, who see as having more than one intimate partner as a sort of deviation of the norm—”

“I’m glad Annabelle doesn’t understand any of this,” Sarah cut him off, pointing to her daughter as she stalked closer. “And shouldn’t you be filtering your words when it comes to the _Sparklings_?”

Blinking down at the human who was confronting him, Barricade leaned closer, but careful not to do so in an intimidating fashion. He was a chameleon, able to adapt himself to the people around him. Sam, who was still hiding between Bumblebee’s arm and his torso, holding onto the limb with shaking hands, was able to see both Jazz and Prowl in this mech’s motions, in his regard towards everyone around him.

“The Sparklings are raised with the understanding of what adults do, as it is part of basic programming. They don’t have the maturity yet to be _part_ of conversations about the more detailed parts of our intimate lives, however, allowing them to understand the broad strokes of healthy relations is part of Sparkling-rearing.” He shrugged, then added, “My Creator-Caretakers raised me that way. I knew that they had a healthy intimate side to their relationship, but I wasn’t exposed to it in an inappropriate manner.”

“So . . . with this discussion . . .”

“It was letting the Sparklings know that binary pairs in the human way don’t always apply to their heritage culture. Yes, they are part of the human world, but they are not _of_ the human world.”

“That sounds like something my pastor used to say,” Peace said as she finished toweling Viridian off, kissing his forehead before pressing her own to it, gaining a happy trill from her Sparkling.

“I worded it like that deliberately,” Barricade replied with a smirk. “That _is_ how I can best compare it to your understanding, if I’m reading the demographic correctly.”

“Why did you chase me?” Sam finally asked, feeling just bold enough to half-step away from his guardian’s arm.

“Why did you run?” Barricade replied, teasing him before he settled himself on the ground. He reached around the water shed, filled a bucket of clean water, then placed it down beside his childhood friend’s knee. “Finish helping _cl-click-whirrchitter-whirr_ clean himself up.”

“Oh, you did _not_ just call my son that!”

“Ohshit!” Barricade took off with Elita hot on his heels, laughing as they played a game of chase around the trees.

Sam stared in shock after the two, then looked up to Bumblebee, whose face was hidden in his hand. His doorwings were dropped halfway, and they trembled with his laughter. “Elita’s gonna tear his armor apart . . .”

“What did he just call you?”

Optics grinning, Bee gusted air out of his vents. “Roughly? ‘The best lay this side of the Milky Way.’ He, uh . . . he would know.”

“You’re _kidding_ me! You . . . and Barricade . . .”

“Remember when I told you about my second relationship?”

_“Him?!”_ Sam half-hissed, half-shrieked.

Bee grinned, and nodded. “He’s a good mech, devoted to his Caretakers and to Optimus and Elita for helping lead us. Cade . . .”

“He’s stable, and he’s securely on our side,” Bluestreak said, walking up to Bumblebee and helping Sam get the mech clean. “He’s our friend, and when we were growing up, he was always there for us, he was always part of our lives in such a deep way that I don’t know _how_ I could have gotten out of my funk after my Caretakers died, nevermind enjoy life in any way if it wasn’t for him and Sunny and Siders coming alongside me and making sure that we were all having fun. I mean, it’s just how we work. Then when Bee came along, it was just even _more_ awesome, because then we all had a little brother who was adorable, and who enjoyed being a troublemaker just like we were! It was really, really fun. And before you get wierded out about us calling him a little brother, but also seeing him as a rather cute and desirable mate, in our culture, interfacing and Bonding with someone means that you trust them completely and totally, otherwise you wouldn’t let them into your processor. That trust takes a _lot_ of time to build up, and usually, Sparkmates or Bondmates know each other since they were Sparklings or Younglings before they were Adults and able to really make decisions on their own about all that other fun stuff that comes with being an Adult. So with Bee, yeah, he’s cute. I wouldn’t _Bond_ with him, ’cause I’m devoted to someone else, but I wouldn’t mind swapping electrons with him. I mean, we were just too busy before, and then we were separated, and then with Cade, well, lemme tell ya in your terms, he’s like liquid dark chocolate, all smooth and bittersweet, and even though he’s nice, I wouldn’t like a long-term relationship with him, though _Bee_ might, I mean, c’mon, they’re total opposites that complement each other, and—”

Sam couldn’t help but smile at Bluestreak’s continual stream of verbiage, even if he blushed at the casual way they spoke about interfacing. It was like he was just rambling away his thought processes, and he knew that it was due to excitement. He knew a lot of people, kids and adults, who would often do the same thing.

And as Barricade walked back over with Elita carried on his back, Sam knew that he was still just hitting the tip of the iceberg with how these mechs dealt with life and with relationships. He was barely skimming the surface. When the cop car settled down before him and Bee again, the young man paused his hands, looking up at the mech levelly before turning back to work again, managing not to jump when Barricade entered the conversation again, his dark voice a perfect counterpoint to the lighter voices of Bluestreak and Bumblebee.

Today was a day of excitement, no doubt.

Because tonight, Jazz and Prowl were finally going to Bond.

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Yes, this is another of those chapters that didn’t want to be written. Yet it turned out to be just as long-winded as a few other chapters, it was still something that I sat back at and wondered, “Do I really have to write this?!” The answer: “Yes, because then people will understand what’s going to keep happening.”_

_So, sorry if there was too much fluff, BUT you got to see Sam lose his crap with Barricade. I’ve wanted to write that part for months! And uh . . . I don’t know if I should have Bee/Cade in this. That’s up in the air at the moment. Thoughts?_

_Also, never fear, I’m changing a few things for DOTM, even if that’s way in the future at this time. I’m not as sadistic as the writers were in that film to characters._

_I haven’t worked on the next chapter yet, so it might end up being about a week or so before the next update. Sorry about that!_

_Song is: “Battle of Erishkigal” by Sasha Lazard_


	33. Revenge Arc 5: I'm Yours

Sam eyeballed Barricade nervously, then looked up at Bumblebee, who was holding and talking to Hudson, Jazz and Prowl’s Sparkling. He was _not_ at all convinced that this crazy-ass Decepticon was really “one of us” and wasn’t at all as psychotic as he had appeared to be.

“Cade! Cade, hold me?” Hudson asked, reaching out for the large black mech. Barricade reached his hand out and scruffed the Sparkling before chuckling in his eerily-like-Jazz voice at the way that Hudson began to scramble around, ending up sitting on the back of his hand. “So they’re really gonna Bond today?”

“Yes, little brother, they are.” Smiling at Bee, who chirped and looked to the Twins and Bluestreak, he added, “And we’re all _very_ happy for them.”

_:If you five prank those two on their **Bonding** night, I **will** remind you all that I’ve been Prowl’s student longer than you’ve all been alive,: _Optimus hissed openly over the comms. He glared at them while he walked to where he was to stand. As he was the only Priest of Primus on Earth, he would be holding the ceremony. Elita walked beside him, and just gave the five a _look_ that promised that she would also be in on the reminding.

Watching the interaction, Sam patted Bumblebee’s leg, asking, “What just happened there?”

“We were warned not to prank Prowl and Jazz. We aren’t going to, and _wouldn’t_ do anything on their day.”

Optimus reached the top of the hillock where the mechs watched the sunrise every morning. He turned and looked down over those gathered and smiled, feeling the Matrix approve of his actions, understanding that this was a good thing. Two peoples, vastly different and complex in their own ways, both coming together to celebrate something that was universal between them: a ceremony where two mechs committed to each other until death parted them. He sighed, letting himself forget the war for a moment, letting himself forget all the horrors he had encountered, everything he had done, all the Sparks he had to extinguish both in defense in while he protected others.

The Matrix hummed against his Spark, a bittersweet emotion filtering through to him as the Primes of Old whispered encouragement once again.

_:This is a moment of joy, Orion Pax. Stop brooding.:_

Elita, Bonded to his own Spark, heard the command and chuckled her approval, sliding her hand into his in the fashion of the humans. Cybertronians didn’t usually hold hands because more times than not, there was a size difference. They would lean against each other, loop arms, rest hands on shoulders, the small of the back, around the hips, what have you. Blinking down at her, Optimus smiled and gently squeezed her hand in return while they waited.

_~The humans are such amazing people,~_ Elita murmured to her mate, enjoying what time they could steal for themselves in this war.

Nodding, the Prime replied, _~And they have such potential to become a magnificent race. They may be too delicate to wander the stars, my love, unless they have are augmented with nanites and within heavy shields from the radiation of deep space.~_

_~Such a pity.~_

_~Mm. I wish I could do more for them, but my hands are tied.~_

_~So is that you admitting that you illegally authorized nanite therapy for Dana?~_

_~Yes,~_ came the sheepish reply.

_~Good. I like her.~_

Laughing softly, Optimus bent and pressed a kiss to Elita’s helm, letting his optics drift off as he waited for Jazz and Prowl to arrive.

“See, Lennox? He’s as mushy are _you_ are when you’re around Sarah!”

“Did you just call my man ‘mushy’? Will, give me your gun.”

Elita laughed and looked up into her mate’s optics. “I think we’ve found our mirror couple.”

“Almost. Will and Ironhide _are_ quite alike. Just don’t get the human around high explosives.” He straightened and received a ping from Jazz, stating that that he was ready. He looked to Hudson and then to Barricade at getting an echoing ping from Prowl. “Ratchet, Barricade and Hudson, as you are the family of those whose nascent Bond we will be celebrating, please bring them to us so that we may begin.”

The cop car put his little brother on the ground with the instruction to go to Jazz while he walked with Ratchet to see Prowl, moving swiftly. Prowl was most likely jittery and ready to panic, and as soon as he had opened the door, that’s just what he saw. The mech was detailed and freshly painted with great care and love. Smiling kindly, he murmured, “You’re not going to crash, are you?”

“Battle computer is off. I did _not_ feel like crashing. Jazz deserves to feel my emotions today.”

“Mm. Then I’ll go be with Hudson and Jazz.” Moving out of the way to reveal the sturdy medic, he heard the whispered keen of joy from his Creator, entering the building where Jazz was pacing. He had merely scooped Hudson up, and was in a similar state of panic. Reaching out and stopping Jazz from wearing a trench in the concrete, he murmured in Cybertronix, “Calm down, my Creator. Stop panicking.”

“We don’t do things like this in Iacon or Polyhex. We always had a lot of contact the day before.”

“You’ll have a lot of contact tomorrow and the day after. You agreed that you wanted the party lively, and nobody throws a livelier party than a Polyhex mech. Calm down. Prowl’s already panicked, and you need to show him that you’re calm when we walk out there. His battle computer is off.”

“He . . .”

“He did that for you. I know the last time he had it off was when Kaon rebelled and it had to be rebuilt.”

“Primus.”

“Mm. Now remember what Terratron taught you; it’s what you and Prowl taught me to do when stressed. Find your Sparkpulse. Center yourself around it. Align your systems to it.” He took Hudson from Jazz’s hands, pulsing a wave of _calm_ through the Creator Bond while he settled his little brother on his shoulder and took Jazz’s claws into his own frightening hands as he heard hydraulic, coolant and energon lines all flush through with fresh fluids, then settle down again as pumps aligned with the pulse of their life-force. When Jazz was calm again, Barricade whispered, “Are you ready, now?”

“Yes.”

Barricade pulled the cowl up off of the desk where it had been placed, loosely wrapping the finely-woven golden metal-fabric around Jazz’s shoulders, then up and around his helm, arranging it so that his face was in shadow, but the bright points of his optics were visible. He pinged Ratchet, who replied that Prowl was calmed and ready, a matching golden cowl around his own helm, then they moved together, opening doors at the same time and making sure that they were physically between Prowl and Jazz as they escorted the couple to the place where the Ceremony was waiting for them.

They walked over the sunset-painted hills to the group of humans and Autobots gathered, moving and walking around the group instead of walking through the group as a human wedding would do. This was showing that the Bond was representing everyone who supported them, walking around them as a mech would walk around one of a higher status or significance. It was showing regard for those who have supported them on their journey of courtship. Then they rounded the top of the group and were facing each other, walking towards each other to meet in front of Optimus and Elita, just a few steps down from their leader upon the hill.

Their optics locked, and no longer were both mechs striving for peace. They found it in their met gaze.

Ratchet and Barricade smiled to each other as they took the hands of the ones they were escorting and turned the right one up and the left one down, then brought the twain together before walking backwards three steps and moving one step down the hillside.

Optimus smiled and said, “We gather on this exquisite evening to celebrate the Bonding between Jazz and Prowl. As our human family does not understand our customs, please bear with me as I will explain a few significant points.” He rested one hand below their joined hands, and one hand over them. “The positioning of their hands shows that they won’t always have the upper hand in anything. Bonding is about compromising with each other, not trying to win or gain victories. It’s about communication and connection.” Smoothly, he segued into the first vows. “Do you, Prowl, solemnly vow before Primus and all of our family gathered here today to compromise with Jazz upon matters that require it? Do you vow to yield when it is needed, to support his hand when he needs you to?”

“I vow this,” Prowl replied, his voice strong.

Turning his gaze to Jazz, Optimus repeated the vow, and got his affirmative. Drawing his hands back, he yielded to his own Sparkmate as she moved forward, in tandem with him. “The placement of where we are is a representation that you will find throughout all of our culture. As Prime and Prime’s Consort, we stand at the top of the hill. Were we on Cybertron, we would be at the top step of any of the Temples of Primus, showing that even _we_ are subject to obedience to a higher power.” Gesturing upwards, she stated, “Our religion is still classified to most humans, even on the NEST teams. However, we trust you, those who are gathered with us as family today.” Looking to Jazz, she asked, “Will you trust Primus’ will in your lives, and will you trust yourself to follow His edicts that He has laid before us to follow in how we are to regard our Sparkmates as our complete equals, neither above us nor below us?”

“I vow to uphold.”

“Do you vow to encourage your Sparkmate to following after Primus’ very essence, to encourage him to use every resource he has at his disposal to make all the right decisions as you continue through your lives?”

“I vow this.”

With Prowl, she repeated the vows, and he agreed to them. She and Optimus shifted their positions again, and the large mech could barely keep himself from smiling, feeling the joy bubbling up from both his beautiful Sparkmate and the Matrix. It had been _far_ too long since he had officiated a Bonding Ceremony, and all the old Primes were in attendance.

That was when it hit them.

That very same feeling in the Inner Sanctum of the Temple of the AllSpark in Simfur.

Doorwings shot upwards all over the place and jaws dropped. Prime froze, assessing what was happening, then looked to the humans. Some were watching their mech friends, some were standing in a breathless, glazed-eyed bubble. Sam seemed to be doing both, watching Bumblebee and then looking around. Nobody whispered, nobody said anything.

Prime whispered. “I . . . feel it is redundant to say that what you feel is the same as what we now feel.”

“It’s _God_ ,” Peace whispered, his voice soft, Viridian crooning in her arms.

“Primus,” Kup whispered with affirmation.

Bluestreak slowly knelt, resting a hand upon the ground for balance as he flung his doorwings out flat, stretching them out as if he could capture more of the feeling. He sighed as he felt peace for the first time since he had become a sniper in the war, having to kill so many mechs while he protected his team and his commanding officers. Fidget snuggled up against the arm he was using to support himself, her motions smooth, gentle, soft, and distinctly less frenzied and panicked.

Drawing fresh air into his intakes, watching everyone reacting in their own way to this, Optimus whispered, “I haven’t felt this since the last time I was in the Inner Sanctum.” Nodding to himself, feeling the small hands of his Bonded resting upon the small of his back, he continued with the ceremony. “We shield our true selves from each other, and from Primus, thinking that nobody can understand what we feel in our souls, our Sparks.” He watched as Barricade slowly tilted his head back, facing upwards, and knew that the mech was silently confessing everything to their Creator, asking for forgiveness for all that he had done and all that he would ultimately have to do. “We do not trust ourselves, and we do not trust even our closest friends with the unadulterated truth of our innermost thoughts. In a Sparkbond, there is no room for shields, for hiding the truth, the flaws, for hiding the darkness that resides in every Spark.”

Releasing each others’ hands, Prowl and Jazz pulled the cowls down over the back of their helms, leaving the fabric to rest around their neck and shoulders.

“Prowl, do you vow to disclose all truth to Jazz, even at the expense of fear and pride?”

“I vow this,” Prowl whispered, doorwings trembling as he felt Primus drawing even closer.

“Jazz, do you vow to disclose all truth to Prowl, even at the expense of fear and pride?”

“I vow this,” the smaller mech murmured, reaching out at the same time as Prowl to grasp each others’ hands again.

“All that remains,” Elita stated as she walked around the frame of her mate, “is your personal vows to one another, and the actual act of Bonding. Jazz, you may begin.”

Silent for one long moment, the saboteur finally whispered in clear, unaccented tones, “I hated you the moment I saw you. I hated what I knew you and I were going to be. I hated that I was still a Youngling and had met you before I had felt ready to meet you. I hated that there was no romantic story behind our meeting, but that our moment of introduction was caused by a tragedy.” Optics and expressive face smiling, Jazz continued, his hands gripping Prowl’s own as if they were a lifeline. “Then as we were continually conspired against by our Caretakers, I began to realize that the romantic part of our story was everything that came _after_ our meeting. I began to respect you as we trained under Terratron, as you stretched yourself thin emotionally for my sake, as you faced down the cruelty of our peers as a transfer student into a new city. And when I saw you smile for the first time as an adult, I _loved_ you. And I knew that you would mean everything to me. I committed myself to becoming a better mech for you. Processor glitches didn’t matter to me. The opinions of our peers didn’t matter to me. All the slag we went through didn’t matter to me. Only _you_ mattered. Your love. And that’s what I vow to. I vow with every pulse of my Spark to love you, even as we argue. I vow to support you. I vow to endure every test, every moment of this Primus-forsaken war until we have peace again. I love you, Prowler, and I commit my Spark into your hands.”

Prowl’s doorwings were trembling, as extended as they went to both capture all that Primus was resting upon them, the first Bonding Ceremony in several millennia, as well as to capture everything from these moments facing the mech that he was going to finally, _finally_ merge his Spark with. He whispered Jazz’s full name in their language once, then murmured, “Jazz, I vowed to myself since the moment we met that I would see the day that I would share my life, my very Spark, with you. I wanted to be stronger for you, more stable, and always held such a high standard for myself that I felt that I fell short no matter how hard I tried. Because Detrious always expected such exact, perfect standards . . . I had to unlearn so much from those first formative years of my life. Because of you, because you were so carefree, so devil-may-care, I was able to enjoy life instead of just walking through it to succeed, to win.” He smiled and shook his head. “I vowed to always protect you. I vowed to always be that open audio for you. I vowed to love you, even if it was unrequited, until my last firing synapse. I renew those vows to you. I renew my dedication to you with each beautiful sunrise on this planet. And I vow to protect the Bond we will share, to protect _you_ as my Bondmate, my Sparkmate, my love, my one, my only. I adore you, I love you, and I commit my Spark into your hands.”

Optimus stood with Elita One and they spoke together over the couple, their voices in perfect harmony and in perfect cadence due to their own Sparkbond. “As you vow to uphold one another as Sparkmates, as you vow your fidelity, your commitment to one another, we vow to help you, to guide you as mentors. Before Primus, before your peers, before your caretakers both present and with Primus, and before our new family, we recognize your Bond.” They smiled and the breathless anticipation began to rise from the audience, the Primes Past, and Primus Himself before the final words. “So as it was, so as it is, so as it always will be. We present to everyone gathered today the Sparkmates Prowl and Jazz.”

Cheers broke out from both mech and human vocals, with some surprisingly loud whistles from the soldiers who were in attendance before the Cybertronians mobbed the new couple, who were still staring into each other’s optics with breathlessness, realizing that _they had done it_. They had lived to see this day, and Primus above smiled down upon them. As the exuberant mechs and humans continued to congratulate the twain, only a handful felt the feeling of what Primus had shown to His people began to fade.

Optimus. Elita. Prowl. Jazz. Bluestreak. Barricade.

And when Barricade looked to the humans, he saw Peace turned partially away, a smile upon her face and weeping silently.

Crouching beside her, the son of two Autobots stroked along her arm with the back of one finger, infinitely gentle. “What’s wrong?”

With Viridian curling his Spark over her heartbeat, Peace whispered, “I haven’t felt my God in a very, very long time. I haven’t felt Him that close, haven’t felt my soul touch Him since I enlisted and had to kill people.”

“But . . . Primus is _our_ deity,” Barricade said in partial confusion, indicating his people.

“What if Primus and Elohim Yehovah are just two names for the same deity?” she whispered, sky blue eyes looking up into red optics.

Barricade didn’t have an answer for that, so he shrugged and smiled. “I’ll leave the speculation up for the priests to figure out. Make sure you talk with Prime about this stuff, since that’s part of his duties. But don’t cry. Come celebrate with us!” He ushered her closer, along with all the other humans so that they were part of the crowding.

“We . . . we don’t crowd the couple!” Epps tried to protest.

“Bully for you, because this is a _Bonding Ceremony_ , not a human wedding! We crowd ’em!” Arcee replied with a laugh, having arrived with Hound, Wheeljack and her mate just on time for the ceremony. Humans and Sparklings alike were picked up so that they weren’t underfoot, and were presented to Jazz and Prowl to offer congratulations.

They all moved off to where buffet tables were set up for the humans and a bar was set up for the mechs. A wet bar had been procured for the adults who felt like letting a little loose. Dana chuckled and rested her arm around Faust’s shoulder. “I look forward to seeing your Bonding Ceremony one day,” she said, smiling at him and stroking his helm.

“Me too,” he replied, smiling up at his mother. “I hope that one day, there’ll be enough of us that I feel who my Sparkmate is like Prowl and Jazz have.”

“Toast!” someone yelled.

Sepia looked up and yelled with clear indignation, “I _don’t_ like that name!”

Laughter sprung up around the statement, and Epps leaned closer and bumped his forehead to hers, knowing that her instincts saw that as a reassuring statement. “Naw, sweetie. Springer was askin’ for _a_ toast to the couple. It’s like showing honor for them.”

“Oooohhh,” she whispered, then grinned. “Okay! Toast!”

Laughing, the mechs took up the first of three drinks. Once many saw what blends were there, they groaned. “We’re not gonna last the night!” Arcee bemoaned. “Praxian _and_ Polyhex?!”

“Mid-grade! Mid-grade!” Sideswipe reassured them as Optimus presented the first small cubes to Prowl and Jazz. The crimson red twin grinned, having been repainted for the occasion the day before. “Trust me, we all know how well we react to combining the high grade combo of those two brews . . .”

“Yah! Fzzt!” Bluestreak teased, turning to make sure that the humans each had their allotted shares. The Sparklings were all staring in shock as they were handed half-vials, a mere taste, of the special energon. They looked up at the adults in shock. Hudson, in particular, was sitting in Barricade’s arms, was looking especially gleeful at getting to taste something higher than the normal energon.

Sam looked at what was in the small glass he had been handed. It wasn’t more than five ounces, but by the scent of it, he knew it was wine. Sniffing it, he blinked and looked down at the liquid again. It smelled sweeter than the red wine his parents preferred. “This isn’t what my parents drink.”

Will looked at Sam, then grinned, showing that _everyone_ , all the adults, had only a small taste of the wine. “Don’t tell your Mom that we’re giving you what we’re giving everyone else for these first two rounds. This isn’t about getting drunk, from what Sunstreaker was telling me. He said that the first two toasts are to the past, and the third toast is to the present and the future. He and Dana worked hard together to find the right feeling and taste of some drinks that was comparable to their energon.”

“So what is this?” Sam asked, looking at Dana, who walked up with Faust behind her, holding his vial of energon carefully, almost as if he was afraid to drop it and it would break.

“Manichewitz. Kosher wine.” She smiled and said. “Sweetened with cane sugar. _This_ is a celebration wine.”

The young man stared down into the drink, then blinked as he heard Prowl’s voice.

“To our human family, we don’t have others making toasts to _us_. Instead, we toast each other first, then, together as one of the first acts of being a couple, we toast to our present and future with your company. That is why there are three drinks.”

“More booze!”

“Sideswipe, shaddup!”

Ratchet reached around the bar and swatted the red twin’s helm with a blaat of a rebuke in their own language, which caused the Autobots to laugh. Wheeljack added a second swat with a second rebuke that got even Sideswipe to laugh with everyone else. Ratchet muttered, “Apologies on behalf your younger adopted brother. Please continue.”

So Prowl chuckled and held his cube of Praxian mid-grade at shoulder-height, his face peaceful, wreathed with a smile, and the fading light from the sun glinted through the transparent fuel, reflecting off of the golden metal-fabric that rested upon his shoulders. “To my Jazz, whose Spark beats with the rhythm of life, whose voice competes with Primus’ angels, whose compassion warms all those who experience it, and whose Spark remains the brightest of those among us.”

Jazz was shuffling in embarrassment, a bright grin over his face, and he lifted his cube higher as Prowl did. After they sipped their cubes, everyone else took a sip from their own drinks, talking amongst themselves and enjoying the warmth of what genuinely tasted like aged Praxian high-grade, only without the generous kick of inebriation attached. The Terrible Twins really had outdone themselves this time around, and it showed.

Elita looked up to her mate, who was admiring the color and clarity of the mid-grade, smiling as he sipped at it, every movement very much part of the regal stature he had once had to act as if he had. He had become the regal, bravest Prime. He had become the compassionate and yet clearly war-minded leader that the Autobots had needed. Glancing down at his mate, he sealed their cubes with a swift movement and swept her off of her feet, picking her up and holding her with his arm around her waist so that their faces were close to one another, grinning broadly as she laughed and rested her arms over his broad shoulders. He heard the catcalls of his men, both mech and human, but settled for grinning and enjoying the feeling of his other half’s Spark so close to his, laughing, teasing him, almost taunting him at their proximity.

“Femme, you always _were_ a tease . . .” he laughed, hearing Ironhide comment something about, “at least Elita followed up the teasing with what she had promised in the beginning!” before taking a hit to the gut from Chromia.

Elita threw her head back and rested one hand against his cheek, stroking his face tenderly. “And you were always my steady pillar.”

“Betcha he had another pillar he’d like to share with you—OW, SLAGGIT!”

“Ignore him! Everyone knows that mechanoids like us don’t have the dangly bits that humans are so keen upon insisting we possess!”

An hour of laughter, storytelling for the Sparklings and the mid-grade cubes and the wine disappeared down various gullets to sit smoothly. Sam found that he liked the wine after all, and he looked up at Bumblebee, who was finishing off his own cube of energon, the corner of the cube fitting into a section of the “mouthpiece” that had folded out of the way. Grinning, he asked, “So . . . are you gonna tell my Mom?”

“No. Elita might, but she’ll be kind about it.”

“Crap.”

“Feeling giddy yet?”

“No.”

“Oh, good.”

“Why?”

“Jazz!” Bluestreak yelled out, holding up a fresh cube. “Toast!”

“Oh.” Sam blushed and shoved a few more mouthfuls of the pasta dinner into his mouth, followed by finishing off the buttered bread he had with it, washing it down with the tall glass of water that Epps had insisted he drink so that it diluted the alcohol that would be going through his system. He shook his head and looked up at his Guardian, who was grinning with his optics. “You’re a pain in the ass. You knew this was coming.”

“Oh, just _wait_ until you have the equivalent of our high-grade.”

Cussing under his breath, Sam shook his head, then heard Dana’s voice. “Trust me, he’ll like it. Here you go, Sam.”

He blinked at the pale golden liquid in the new glass, frowning. Epps even looked surprised at what he was handed, and he came over to lean down and whisper, “I ain’ never had this stuff before.”

“What is it?”

“Iunno.”

“You’re the soldier!”

“Don’ mean that I know what every piece of alcohol _is_ , kid.” He grinned as Sepia walked over carefully with Tron and Cobalt, each holding their half-vials of Polyhexi mid-grade with delicate precision. This was a huge treat for them, and all the adults were smiling nostalgically, remembering their first encounter with what was termed “mid-grade” in English, but was in actuality something almost akin to the different types of gasoline that they fueled their cars with. There were different grades, and low-grade was merely the usual basis. High-grade overcharged circuits, causing a mech to become less coordinated if they were already sufficiently fueled as the extra energy caused synapses to misfire. Mid-grade was somewhere between the two, and was usually for semi-formal settings.

Jazz found himself up on one of the concrete sitting-stumps, grinning down at Prowl. Chuckling in his deep, lyrical tones, he sighed and shook his head. “Primus, I thought I’d get outta this . . .”

“Not a chance!” Springer yelled from where he stood with his arm draped around Arcee’s tri-colored frame, her arm around his hips.

“Yeah, but let’s be realistic: Prowl makes the prettier speeches!” The Autobot TIC grinned at the catcalls and jeers before lifting his cube to shoulder-height, which triggered the response that everyone else do the same. He smiled to the humans, then looked to his mate. “To mah Prowler, whose laughter dances when nobody else c’n see it, whose voice makes mah Spark desire him even more every time he speaks, whose emotions always ran the deepest, and whose love Ah still don’t feel I deserve.”

When they raised their cubes, everyone cheered, then followed suit and sipped at their semi-inebriating drink of choice. Dana sipped appreciatively at her liquor, then heard Sam’s shout of, “Dude, is this _honey_?!”

“Wait, what?” Bumblebee asked, leaning in and looking down at his human’s drink.

Sarah Lennox laughed and walked over with her drink. “It’s mead. Distilled honey. And there’s a reason why we all have only a little of it. This stuff can knock you out.”

Bumblebee sighed mournfully. “I wish I could have a sense of taste like your kind has . . . It’s ironic that you’re drinking alcoholic honey and I can’t have any.”

“Bee . . . are you tipsy?”

The yellow scout blinked and shuffled a little, then looked to Barricade and Bluestreak, who were finishing off their mid-grade cubes and moving back to high-grade. “Uh . . .”

“They slipped you a cube.”

“Yeah. A half-cube of New Iacon.”

“Neither of us are driving tonight.”

“Uh, nope.”

Sarah laughed at their interchange, smiling as she saw Faust shift a hint at feeling the mid-grade settle in his tank, then crouch at seeing Annabelle. He, Iris, Hudson, and Tron out of all of the Sparklings were the best and kindest about being around the Lennox child. Only Faust was big enough to carry her anywhere or even to pick her up without hurting her, and she, like her father, loved being around the mechanoids.

Speaking of that man, he was sliding his arm around her, leaning down to kiss her lips and murmur, “If I get a babysitter, can I get some time alone with you tonight?”

“To do what, Major William Lennox?”

“To remind you of our wedding night.”

She blushed, then grinned and asked, “So long as the babysitter in question isn’t drunk, then yes.”

“Mm, good.” He pushed his nose into her hair, breathing in the scent of all that was Sarah, down to the shampoo she used and the hint of expensive perfume that came from right behind her ear.

“Will.”

“Yes?”

“They’re watching us.”

“So?”

“Will.”

“Mm?”

_“They’re watching us.”_

Sighing, he looked up at the Autobots, seeing Ironhide smirking at him suddenly, followed by Sideswipe and Sunstreaker giving him thumbs-up before the red twin threw back a small cube of something that looked decidedly stronger than anything Will had seen before. Chromia was smiling gently from around her mate, and Optimus and Elita were also watching with a smile. So he rested his free hand on his hip. “What’re you clowns looking at?”

“Good to see you and your femme together,” Ironhide rumbled, turning back to sipping the Polyhexi mid-grade.

Optimus shook his head. “It’s more than that. It’s good to see you and Sarah relaxing. I’m not one to really talk, since I don’t follow this advice, but every leader needs time to just come down and not be a leader.”

It was less than fifteen minutes before someone called out for the final toast. Apparently, everyone was looking forward to the first official public tasting of the new high-grade brew that Sunstreaker had been working on. He was personally going over each cube, holding it up to his olfactory sensor and taking a sniff before he resealed cubes and moved down the line. He was serious about brewing and making sure that everything was untouched and with the perfect mix. At the end of the line, he nodded to Will, who moved with Epps to mix the humans’ drink.

“Before we toast . . . we want Sunstreaker to talk about this new brew,” Prowl stated as he traced a line down his Bondmate’s back, feeling pleasantly relaxed from the mid-grade, and anticipating all that was going to come in only a short while. This moment of Sunny talking would give Will and Epps the time they needed to mix alcohol. “After all, _you_ are the one who decided upon creating something new.”

Smiling brightly, he nodded. And for that moment, he _was_ Flight-Of-Eternal-Sun, his very disposition brightened by the events of the day, and the upcoming two days of celebration. Sideswipe was clearly twice as giddy and happy, so it was feasible that both halves of their Spark were closely entangled and overflowing with joy for their mentors. “Energon is created under very specific circumstances. In time, humans may be able to figure out the process upon their own, but for now, that process is _highly_ classified. However, it is a clean-emission fuel, and it can be created using sustainable energy as well as from carbon-based matter.” He held up a cube of the newest high grade with a smile under the floodlights and strands of white Christmas-tree lights that he and Jolt had strung up artistically, working together to create winking patterns of light in the glyphs for “Eternal Sparkmates.” It was corny, it was cheesy, but Jazz and Prowl had laughed and liked the touch, even if Jolt chafed at how “tasteless” it had been. “But it is rare that we are able to successfully brew high-grade using solar energy alone. Very rare. There has only been a few suns that we have been able to tap into their passive energy like this, and Sideswipe was very right when he told me that I would love the sun here.”

Sunstreaker studied the soft refractions of the light within the almost-lilac-colored high-grade. “This brew, which I created out of curiosity and later, out of determination to create something unique, is especially for Jazz and Prowl, who have always encouraged my talent in brewing.” The twin held out the first two cubes of high-grade to the couple. “These cubes are representative of your new life together on this planet, your new start towards a shared future, and the taste is reminiscent of sunlight and earth, with hints of other elements. May I present, for the first time, in honor of Prowl and Jazz’s Sparkbonding, the brew ‘Earth’s Singing Watcher’.”

“I see what you did there!” Bluestreak said with a half-inebriated giggle. “I bet that you’re using the glyphs from their names in the official title! I _knew_ you would do something like that!”

“Blue. If you want to get some tonight . . .”

Cooling fans kicked on with the mere thought of being able to feel the minds of the mechs he adored and Bluestreak looked embarrassed, but unrepentant. “Shutting up. Gotcha. Lookin’ forward to it, and yes sir, may I have another?”

Laughter brightened the night, and the humans held their cocktail flutes with the interesting mix that was only to be served freshly shaken. Sunstreaker turned to look at them next, adding, “And with yours, we have mixed Absolut Boston with lemon Pelegrino and a hint of sugar cane syrup in order to sweeten. I chose that mixture with Dana and Will’s help because they agreed that it tasted like something they would enjoy on a sunny day, but had a hint of an earthy basis to it.” Stepping back, he looked to the couple in question, murmuring, “I yield to our presiding couple.”

Together, Prowl and Jazz raised their high-grade cubes. “To our family, both from our far past and from our recent past, we are deeply grateful for your support, for your encouragement, your guidance and your love. Without you, without your coming to our celebration, we would not have half as much joy as we have now. To you, our family, we toast.” They raised their cubes and sipped, optics flashing at the flavors that danced and wove around each other, looking to Sunstreaker in shock.

Prowl, once he had enjoyed that first taste, spluttered, “This wasn’t the brew you had me try last time!”

The golden twin smirked cockily. “Oh, I know. That was only the _start_ of what I was planning. Elita ultimately chose this one. Thank _her_.”

Jazz, meanwhile, was still chugging back the cube of high-grade, much to the laughter and delight of their family.

Some half-hour later, Sam sat against a bench with a slight buzz, but the adults hadn’t let him do more than get that far as they kept shoving water into his hands. Apparently, they didn’t want him to wake up with a hangover the next day, either. He held a sleeping Annabelle in his lap, perfectly fine with sitting back and watching the small bit of dancing. He was a terrible dancer, and with the Sparklings all tuckered out and slowly dropping into recharge, was glad that he was the unofficial babysitter. It meant that he didn’t have to prove how terrible he was.

The music changed from something human to something decidedly alien.

Looking up sharply, he saw everyone move out of the way for five mechs that stood in the center of the large outdoor patio that doubled as the Sparkling playground. The music pulsed and pulled, and something sounding almost like a whining sitar combined with the low harmonic drones of a bagpipe set begin to course through the complex beat. Sam, at first, wasn’t sure of how it sounded so grounded and so _organic_ , even when it should have been a jarring sound, but it seemed to weave _around_ the five that met in the middle, then backed up smoothly until they were at four points of a square, with one extra standing in the “side” facing Prowl and Jazz.

Sideswipe. Sunstreaker. Bluestreak. Barricade. Bumblebee.

The smallest, brightest mech moved from the side to the center, and he crooned once in harmony with the song before activating _something_ that outlined the points of his frame in a soft yellow light. The light dripped down over his doorwings from their highest point, down the back of his helm, and fell from his fingertips and heels.

Then he moved.

Now, Sam understood that he was definitely heterosexual. He was a straight as a flagpole and had _no_ inclination towards anyone male, even if they were aliens merely identifying their pronouns as male.

But how Bee was moving . . . it made him beautiful.

He left glowing trails of light in his wake as he danced under the three floodlights, spinning, jumping, landing lightly and moving through what were clearly dance forms. He was a dancer, like Jazz, and it was clear to see that he _enjoyed_ this expression. His optics were bright, his motions fluid and his doorwings, though mobile, were giving away his high spirits as he honored the new couple.

And then he stopped, his motions flowing to a halt, before he whispered, “I danced for you, Prowl and Jazz. Now, _we_ dance for Cybertron.”

Sideswipe had bloodred trails of light activate upon his form, Sunstreaker was golden, a deeper shade than Bumblebee’s soft yellow. Bluestreaks’ color was optic-blue, and Barricade . . . Sam was shocked to see that he had adopted the blue-white of a Spark.

Yellow. Friendship and happiness.

Red. Love and passion.

Blue. Freedom and peace.

White. Purity and innocence, an ethereal, supernatural color.

The four mechs on the outside moved with harmonic precision, weaving light out and around before spiraling inwards with handless backflips that seemed to defy gravity as they landed within inches of Bumblebee.

The floodlights cut out, leaving only the small Christmas lights to glisten off of armor like stars.

Designs wove, intermingled, and soft keens started to be heard as the five mechs began to trace out skylines with sharp angles and spires, moving through to weave a globe, followed by another skyline, followed by symbols, designs, and finally, a swirling, asymmetrical pointed object that caused Prime to bark a laugh, which sparked off other peals of laughter. The humans didn’t get it and didn’t understand what the strange object was, but figured that it was some sort of inside joke.

The five broke into three and two as the song beat shifted once again. Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, and Bluestreak danced to a fast beat together, becoming one entangled mass of light that didn’t seem possible for it to be really three frames. Tearing his gaze away from them, Sam focused upon Barricade and Bumblebee, whose gazes were locked in a battle of wills. They mirrored each other’s movements, each pushing towards the other and creating a yellow and white butterfly of movements. They stared each other down, cerulean optics meeting crimson, and then shifted from mirror-moves to a set of harmonic movements.

And Sam knew then what Bee had seen in Cade all those centuries, even millenia ago.

They harmonized with each other, complemented each other, and were just as strong as each other.

Hugging Annabelle a bit closer, he wondered if they would take up their old romance. He didn’t know what to think about that, and it scared him a bit, which he didn’t understand.

“Sam.”

Looking up to see Wheeljack, he smiled, then returned his gaze to the dancing couple, who were winding down to a halt. They stared at each other, standing still with fans roaring because of their exertion. Looking to Bluestreak and the Twins, he saw Sunstreaker perched with his head looking over Sideswipe’s shoulder, their forms entangled as they stared intensely into Bluestreak’s optics.

“Yeah, Jack?”

“You look unsettled.”

Sam didn’t answer that for the moment it took for the dancers to turn as one to face Jazz and Prowl, then bow in a fashion that Sam had never seen before, arms at shoulder-height, palms-up, one leg bent, the other extended backwards and resting only the toe upon the ground, gazes locked upon the new couple.

“A little.”

“Is it about Bumblebee?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah, him and Barricade.”

“Y-yeah.”

The inventor and engineer crouched and rested his fingertips along Sam’s back. “Bee takes his duties seriously. That’s why he and Cade broke it off between them. His duty is to protect you, and you and he seem to have also become friends in the process.”

“But . . . would he . . .”

“Sam . . . leave it for tomorrow, maybe the day after. Talk with him on the way back home, but . . . don’t worry about Barricade. His Caretakers would have his aft if he took one step out of line. Oh!” Holding one finger up to his mouth, he pointed to where Ratchet strode up to Prowl and Jazz.

The mech seemed to draw in a deep breath before addressing the pair. “Normally, in my position as Caretaker, I would be gifting you somewhere to stay for a year. I would be helping you fund a honeymoon to Praxus or Polyhex, or even to one of the moons.” His voice broke and fizzled with static, and Ratchet looked down at his empty hands. “All I own is myself, my frame, and a medical bay filled with tools that I can’t even access from here. I cannot supply you with the means for an easy first year of your Bonding, where you can save up for further years.”

“Ratchet,” Prowl murmured, reaching his hand out to rest graceful white fingers over the blunt and powerful chartreuse hands of his Creator-Caretaker.

“Prowl, Jazz,” he replied, his voice wavering with emotion. “All I can offer you is what I can do. All I can offer you is who I have been to you as you’ve both grown through life. All I can offer you is my love, my best wishes, my loyalty unto death, when my Spark is extinguished. And I pray that it will be enough.”

Prowl and Jazz looked to each other before they embraced Ratchet. The Praxian’s doorwings lowered and he said just loud enough for his voice to be heard by the humans, “It’s _everything_. Ratchet, you’re everything I’ve ever wanted in a Caretaker. Don’t ever doubt your worth.” Smiling, pulling back, he whispered, “You’ve already done so much for me, for us.”

Everyone was smiling at this interaction, and Jazz lightly hit his fist against Ratchet’s side. “Yo’ve patched us up more times than I care ta _count_. Stoppit, ol’ mech.”

“Watch who you’re calling old!” Kup retorted, laughing.

Ratchet seemed to pull himself together again. “There is a small building in the Northern field, up against the forest. Prime, Ironhide, Kup and I put it together for you two, for tonight. Go. Come back to us after the second dawn.”

The duo didn’t have to be told twice. They took off, golden fabric streaming out behind them as they ran out the lighted area and into the darkness. Shaking his head, Sam Witwicky grinned at their obvious enthusiasm. Wheeljack stood from where he had crouched, walking across the clearing to slip his hand into Ratchet’s with a smile. “Hard, isn’t it?”

“It never gets any easier, no matter how many times I’ve stood and sent off a child to Bond with another.”

Bumblebee walked up to his Creators, who embraced him between them. Barricade picked up Hudson from where the child sat sleepily, having been determined to see them off before he passed out. The elder of the two siblings came to stand beside Ratchet. The Twins and Bluestreak moved to stand with the CMO, reminding him of the family that he’d gathered around himself, even if he was a grouchy medic. Arcee and Springer stood together. Jolt stood on his own until Kup moved to his side. Ironhide and Chromia stood together. Hound moved to stand with Arcee and Springer. First Aid moved to stand with Ratchet.

Then Bee chirped and looked at Sam before chuckling and walking over to him, the other humans, and the Sparklings. “We gather with our families, and those who mentored us after we send off the couple.”

Ironhide walked over with Chromia to stand with Will, Sarah and Epps. Ratchet turned his head to look to Peace, pointing imperiously that she join them, which she did, hitching her sleeping, Sparkling son up a bit higher so that she didn’t trip over his limp legs while she moved. Bluestreak grinned broadly and beckoned for Bryce to join them as well. Sleeping Sparklings were picked up and held against warm chests by humans and Autobots alike, and Sarah took Annabelle from Sam, smiling her thanks to him. He levered himself up, finding himself staring at Tom Banachek before Bumblebee whispered, “Will you join our family, Sam? Tom?”

At their nod, Bee picked up Cobalt and Tron, the final two Sparklings, and walked with them to Optimus and Elita, who welcomed them with gentle touches to (comparatively) small shoulders.

Once everyone was standing among a family group, a _pack_ , Optimus spoke. “It has been a day of great joy to us all, and one that I am personally thankful to say that has come to pass while I may be in attendance. There were many surprises, many gifts given to both the couple and to the group as a whole, and I wish to express my thanks and my enjoyment of this day to you all. It is now late, or early, and there’s two more days that we can drink ourselves into a stupor in celebration. Get rest, get recharge, and may Primus continue to smile upon us all.”

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** What a whopper of a chapter. This was also a bit tough to write, but man, was it satisfying to finally be able to put this down onto paper, so to speak. I really wish that we had some of the tech I described, but we’re not that far with holographic technology. That would make everything so much cooler for any sort of dance, from ballet to raving and everything in between._

_And yes. I know. Sam drank alcohol, but he was decidedly not drunk. Special occasion, what have you, and if you take issue with responsible “underage” drinking, remember that the USA has a drinking age of 21, and other countries have a drinking age of 18, Sam’s age, and I’ve addressed “underage drinking” in a prior Author’s Note in one of the Mnemonic Arc chapters._

_And hey! I’ve seen so many new story/author/favorite alerts since I posted the last chapter, and I wanted to thank you all for your support, your reviews, and your desire to keep reading this! Thank you, all of you!_

_Song is: **“I’m Yours”** by **Jason Mraz.**_


	34. Revenge Arc 6: A Thousand Beautiful Things

Dana McLachlan had lived a hard life. Her father died when she was three. She always made friends with the people who weren’t of her “race” or mindset and therefore, she was often looked down upon in the time of segregation when she was a teen. She served in a MASH unit in Vietnam when she was twenty-five, saw many young men die and saved those whom she could manage to save.

And just before the war ended, a smothering and sweltering day in 1973 when she was 27, she saw one of the reasons why they had been so involved in the country.

The device.

She didn’t even know what it was, only that it was something that she shouldn’t have seen held cradled in the arms of the dazed and bloodied special agent that was escorted by MPs, men with rocket launchers and snipers. She was ordered to patch the boy up, and when he glared at her with hard brown eyes for Dana’s order to put the thing down, she plucked the strange thing out of his arms, put it beside him, and turned his face away with a firm grip to his chin so that she could see what was bleeding on his neck. He continued to struggle and be a problem to her until she told him to either settle down or she’d sedate him. He had to be sedated. He was a much nicer boy when he was sedated.

So, just to piss them off after all the crap that they were putting her through, she refused to sign on the dotted lines.

She was transferred out of the MASH unit two weeks later, brought back to home soil prematurely, due to some bullshit excuse or another. Dana never looked at the paper.

When she arrived at Hoover Dam with all her wordly possessions, all four suitcases of them, she met the boy with his bruises fading under his very-light olive skin. He was accompanied by a slightly-older and handsome man who was _maybe_ her age. He had that ageless look around his eyes which made it hard to tell how many years he’d lived, but he stood with a great amount of authority. “I’m Tom Banachek, your new superior. This is Agent Simmons, who you treated over in Vietnam.”

“I remember the little rat. Sir.” Dana curled her lip at the boy. “He’s why I’m not still out there saving lives.”

“We need you _here_ to save lives.”

“Because I wouldn’t sign a waiver?”

“Because you handled something with a certain aplomb that we were looking for, and we don’t have any field medics on-staff here.”

“At Hoover Dam?” Dana asked incredulously, watching a grunt come up and help pick up her bags.

When she found herself staring up at the frozen monster a half hour later, she realized that she would have rather have been here from the beginning anyway. If only to keep an eye on what these crazies were doing. Another half hour later and she stared up at the massive cube with its alien writing and swirls, and she whispered, “Woah.”

“Quite the crown jewel, yeah?” Simmons asked.

“So then what was that piece of crap you were lugging around?” she shot back at him, not looking away from the bronze-chrome-burnished-gold metal object. “’Cause it looked like part of an alternator. Found a foreign car to your liking?”

He spluttered and stormed out of the room. Banachek turned and held his hand out to Dana. “It’s a pleasure to have you as part of my team.”

Shaking his hand, she asked warily, slowly, “Why?”

“Because you’re able to get Simmons to leave you alone. That takes some talent. He usually pushes everyone else away. Now, let’s get you settled in, shall we?” He smiled broadly, turning and opening the door for her.

.o.  
1988

“You’re going to _what_?” Dana, now 42, deadpanned in the middle of the briefing with the heads of departments within Sector Seven. Fifteen years had passed since she had been returned to the States from Vietnam, and the time had passed with a certain strange timelessness. It felt strange, but she knew that she was aging, just like everyone else, but the days seemed to pass in a certain pattern of where a discovery would be made and all the geeks and scientists would have a field day, then . . . nothingness for another stretch of time.

She learned to work the same way as she had in ’Nam. Keep your head down, do what you need to do, and enjoy what happiness you found when you could find it.

“I want to see if we can harness that energy that the Cube is giving off.” Simmons tapped the table in front of him with one long finger, his eyes narrowing. He hated that he couldn’t control Dana. She ranked up there with him, and _could_ out-rank him when it came down to it. She answered directly to Banachek, just like he did.

“It’s feasible,” one of the geeks said, shoving thick-rimmed glasses up his nose and looking back down at his notes, and started to ramble off about equations and how one gathered the energy or radiation that was being put off by the Cube. He was never really clear about _what_ it was that the Cube gave off, only that it emitted _something ___.

When he was finished, Banachek looked to Dana. “This means that we’ll have a greater risk factor present.”

“Do I have to train newbies?” she snarled, standing, “Or will I just leave that up to those of you who want to continue being suicidal? You all _told_ us that people have been thrown several feet away from the Cube! I’ve _seen_ it happen! Why are you trying to harness something that doesn’t wish to be touched?!”

“We won’t know what the Cube is capable of if we don’t try something,” Simmons argued, putting his hand palm-down on the table, showing that he was not going to be backing down from this.

“Fine. You wanna play cowboy? Enjoy walking away when the mustang shows you that it won’t be broken. I’ve heard all I need to hear about this matter. I have a med team to prep.” Standing and walking out of the briefing room, she stalked out through the maze under Hoover Dam, taking her time as she walked through large, almost-empty rooms.

She found herself before the Cube.

Sighing, she strode up onto the catwalks that surrounded what could have been just another modern art piece in some city. There was one place on the walks that was hidden from all angles, and it was one of three locations where someone could touch the Cube. She had never touched it, but had let her hand hover centimeters off of the surface, feeling the static build and warm her palm. She drew in a deep breath and reached out towards the Cube again, feeling the energy build again. Releasing the air in her lungs, she let her hands fall onto the railing.

“Why can’t they just leave you alone? Why do they have to try to figure things out about you?” she whispered, feeling the silence surround her like a warm blanket. Reaching up again, she let her hand hover over the skin of the Cube. The warmth built again, this time seeming to curl around her fingers and encourage the phalanges closer. Biting her lip, Dana waited, then hesitantly touched the pad of her index finger to the Cube.

Nothing adverse happened.

But she _felt_ something racing along her nerve paths.

And she felt comforted by the contact.

Dana let her hand rest against the Cube, pressing her palm over the warm metal. “I’m sorry that we’re trying to understand what you are.”

.o.  
1999

“We’re losing him!” one of the on-staff doctors shouted.

Unable to do more than assist doctors that seemed far too young to be saving lives with hands that weren’t as strong as they had been even two years ago, Dana cursed the ravages of time. She snarled at a young nurse that was standing shocked, rooted to the floor, staring at the ripped and sliced flesh. “Get _in_ there, girl!”

The girl shook her head slowly, hands trembling, almost losing the sterile instruments that she had been delivering to the emergency OR. Moving from where she was standing with swift, painful motions, Dana grabbed the tools from the young woman and hurried them to the doctor that was trying to save the life of a soldier.

This wasn’t the first time that this had happened, and it wouldn’t be the last.

When it was over, Dana walked out of the OR, bloodied and bone-weary. She stripped her gloves off and threw them onto the floor at Simmons’ feet with a glare. She didn’t have to say anything. She just walked away from him and into the showers. Dana was fifty-three, and she didn’t have time for these kinds of games anymore. She was tired of the fact that they were losing brave boys just as fast as the kids were signing up. She was tired of the lives that were lost without any meaning.

After the shower, she walked out to the Cube again, finding that place where nobody could see.

Not for the first time, she met up with the only other human in Sector Seven who didn’t get thrown away or shocked at touching the Cube. He looked up at her and whispered, “I wish I could make all this right, Dana. If I had more time in my life, if I had another lifetime, maybe I could undo everything that I’ve done . . .”

Sighing, Dana walked up beside Tom Banachek, reaching up to rest her hand beside his upon the Cube, closing her eyes at feeling the addictive peace ensconcing her. Head bowing, she looked up at the man that she followed and trusted from the corner of her eye, then leaned against his frame, feeling him wrap his free arm around her shoulders, curling her tight.

“If I had another lifetime, Dana, I could have told you years before I did that I wanted to share my life with you.”

“We already share lives, Tom. You couldn’t have shared this with a wife at home. I couldn’t have shared this with a husband at home. One of us would have had to go, and we both know this.”

The man sighed, letting his head hang. “That kid just signed on last year.”

“I know.”

Hands falling from the Cube, Tom and Dana took comfort from each others’ embrace, heads touching, pressing temples together. His voice was soft. “We have to be missing something. There’s got to be _something_ that we’re just not seeing . . .”

“Tom. Let it be. Just for tonight, let it be.” She pressed her aged face against the breast of his suit, feeling him stroking her back soothingly.

And the man let it be.

.o.  
2003

“We’re going to try something new.”

“Like we haven’t heard _that_ before,” Dana snarled, sighing and rubbing at her left hip as she sat through another meeting.

“Will you just give up and retire already?” Simmons snapped.

She leered at him before sitting back in her chair. “Oh, I will. Just not before I see the end of Sector Seven.”

“People, can we keep the bickering down for just _one_ hour?” Banachek asked, rubbing at his forehead and indicating for the new, young scientist to continue. He loved Dana with all his heart, and Simmons had the determination to get things done in the field, but they mixed like water and oil when there were no emergencies to take care of.

Having been around long enough to understand the dynamic between the two senior agents, the scientist said, “We’ve always had armed soldiers in the room whenever a drone was activated. What if we remotely activated the drone and let it settle down before sending someone in to deal with it? It’s never been tried before.”

“And _who_ will go in to ‘deal with it’?” Simmons demanded, slamming his hand down upon the table. “They’re psychotic! No matter _what_ programming you try to implement into it before we activate it, they’re _still_ gonna tear the place up!”

The meeting concluded not too long after that point, ending that they would just find _someone_ who would go in and try to make contact with the drone. Banachek and McLachlan shared a look after everyone had left. “You know that what we’re calling a drone is showing at _least_ twice as much intelligence any AI that anyone’s been able to develop, even for the gaming industry which has been keeping up with and sometimes _surpassing_ the military attempts,” he murmured, trying to massage a headache out of his temples.

“I know,” she replied, sighing and sitting back in her chair. “The kids are all kinds of happy when they found what the Cube energy could do, how it took our tech and advanced it with just that hint of radiation. They want to experiment more, but with anyone in the room, anything larger than a cell phone turns lethal.”

“Is it really our tech anymore?” he asked, looking up at the woman who had helped shape what Sector Seven currently was. “ _Was_ it ever really our technology? We reverse-engineered everything from NBE-One.”

She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me, Tom. What matters to me is saving lives.” Standing with a wince and a groan, she stretched her back gently before walking towards the door.

Three months later, she found herself staring into a room, watching as they sent radiation through an old television set. The device trembled, shook, transformed and rolled off of the table as a bipedal mechanoid. Strangely, this time, there were no weapons upon it. The creature lashed out in fear, denting the table and backing itself into a corner, shrieking and warbling in an alien language.

Dana frowned. She had seen several hundred experiments come to life, and she was always the one who was personally standing on-call to administer first aid for anyone injured. The reason behind it was that she just didn’t panic when something went wrong. At this point, she figured that she had just gone numb from so many years of seeing torn flesh and seeping blood. Sometimes the injuries were scratches or minute puncture wounds from bitty bullets. Sometimes, they were fatal wounds. So as she watched this drone sit back and push itself into a corner, limbs trembling without any sense of coordination and eyes darting around as if everything was an enemy, she wondered out loud, “When was the last time that there was a drone that came online without weaponry?”

A geek checked a physical chart, running a finger down along one column before he muttered, “They’ve all had weaponry.” Looking up, he wondered, “Why isn’t this one activating guns or something?”

“Maybe he doesn’t have any?” Banachek wondered out loud, looking to Simmons, who was double-checking a flamethrower that clearly didn’t follow Geneva guidelines.

The younger man looked up. “What? Just in case things go south, you know? I mean, c’mon, these little suckers are mean and fire seems to stop them when it gets out of hand.” He went back to making sure that everything was in working order.

Dana pursed her lips, watching the drone huddle.

Then a new noise, one that nobody had ever heard before, began to filter out of the room. A noise that startled many, but caused a reaction with few. Dana moved to the door, moving closer at the noise, feeling Banachek’s hand grab her elbow, even though _he_ was pressing himself closer to the door. “We can’t spare you!”

“ _That’s_ crying! That drone? It’s self-aware! It’s crying!” She saw in his face that he heard it too. He heard the same thing that she did.

And in his eyes, she knew he had realized just what she had about this particular experiment. It was expressing emotion.

“How do you even know that? How _could_ you know that?” Simmons demanded, shoving his way forward. He recoiled at the glare set upon Dana’s face towards him.

The wailing, multi-layered keen sounded again.

“Could it be anything _other_ than crying?” With that, she yanked open the door, feeling her old frame protest at the movement. Once she was locked in, she stayed by the door, hearing the keen at full-power. Wincing, she tried something that had always worked with small animals when she as a child and teenager. The drone’s cries had drowned out the sound of the door opening and closing, but when it paused for “breath,” she started the soft call. “Ouush-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh.” The soft shushing caught the attention of the drone, who hiccupped a half-keen.

She replied with the soothing noise until he looked around the corner of the file cabinet it had pushed itself behind, arms still holding legs close to a torso.

He wasn’t the most darling of creatures, but . . . “so ugly he was cute” was a way to describe him. Sighing, Dana moved to settle herself down upon a stool, staying where she was at. She didn’t try to communicate yet. She just waited.

He stared.

She smiled gently, making the shushing noise, leaning partially forward and holding one hand out.

Dana wasn’t prepared for the drone to dart across the room and press himself against her side.

The door opened with a rush, Tom with a shotgun in his hands and three soldiers behind him backing him up. The motion caused the drone to wail again, startled and shocked, and it turned its optics off and pushed his face under her arm and against her side, trembling with shock and fear.

She blinked and took her first deep breath since entering the room, looking down at the meeping creature under her arm. Tom lowered his weapon and stared for one long minute, then looked at Dana. “Its . . . tame.”

Nodding, she gently touched the back of the small head, feeling the trembling stop momentarily, then the little face peeked out and up at her. Dana smiled and murmured, “Well, Lucky, aren’t you quite the darling.”

It cheeped.

She chuckled and patted the top of his head again.

It moved into the touch, stubby fingers holding onto her scrubs as if it were a security blanket. She moved to stand, and it moved with her.

“I guess I’ve been adopted.”

“We have to test it!” Simmons declared from around the doorframe.

“No, we’ll let it develop first. Dana’s been with us since the Seventies; she knows how to take meticulous notes,” Banachek shot down the order immediately. “Let’s get McLachlan and the drone out to an observation room first, see how it takes to various stimuli.”

“Will someone get me some tea and some aspirin while we’re at it?” Dana requested, feeling the little drone clinging to her gently.

“Did he hurt you?” Tom asked softly, urgently.

“No, I just have a headache from stress.” She smiled up at him, then looked down at the little mechanoid that had taken refuge literally under her arm, large crimson optics darting around fearfully before he pushed his face back against her ribs with a half-whined moan. She smiled and pulled him closer to her frame, stroking the back of his head gently with two fingers. Even if he was only an AI, it wouldn’t be wrong to give him some comfort.

Then Dana frowned.

Since when would you have to comfort a machine?

And since when did she give the creature a gender-designation?

.o.  
2007

“Wait. You said that an entire _squad_ of NBEs came and took the Cube?! And you didn’t _tell_ me or stream any video to my harddrive?! Dammit, Tom!” She laughed, eyes bright and happy, as she spoke with Banachek, who had his lap occupied by a chittering, happy Faust. They were sitting upon rocking chairs that overlooked the main fields of the ranch she had inherited from her late and lamented mother in Oklahoma. Having been diagnosed with cancer last year, Dana had decided to retire from Sector Seven to focus upon being healthy. She had a hell of a retirement package, and had enough money to try to see herself cured from the disease. So far, the doctors were hopeful, since they caught it early. That was a year ago.

“You should’ve seen them,” he whispered with a grin. “They were _glorious_. Pure power and nothing like NBE-One. Every one of them, the ‘Autobots,’ at least, were everything that we imagined them to be. There was even that other ruler from NBE-One’s memories here, and he’s _magnificent_. Not that I could tell anyone official my actual opinion. I’ve been transferred to the Pentagon, some asinine desk job to ‘keep me out of trouble,’ and Simmons went AWOL after Keller read him the riot act.”

Wincing, Dana shifted herself and she sighed, rubbing at her hips and lower back again. The pain seemed to center around there, and when she had finally gone in to see what was wrong some fourteen months ago, she realized that she had been suffering for a long time already. “So you’re telling me that they’re still around?”

“And they might come looking for these little guys someday.” He smiled at Faust, who went _brrrt?_ and chortled a laugh, nuzzling his head under Banachek’s chin with what seemed to be a sigh. “They protected that Cube with a zeal almost akin to our own religious crusades, wanting some . . . trinket, some piece of archaic wood or a nail or something that hold religious significance. The one that the kid called Bumblebee, he must have been something like a priest, maybe.”

“All speculation, right?”

“Well, he and the boy were the only two who could touch it from what I heard from the Mission City reports. And the boy activated it somehow. _Without_ any tech. It was _him_ , and only him.”

“What? The Witwicky boy? _Really? >_”

“Yeah. He just . . . he and Bumblebee each caused the AllSpark to do something unique. First it shrank, which I’m glad I could see on film again, because that was _unearthly_ , then it released what seemed to be a focused beam of energy.”

“Killing the monster.”

“Exactly.”

“Wow.”

Banachek grinned. “Yeah.” Looking down at the starting-to-drop-off-to-sleep drone in his lap, he smiled and cupped the back of his helm, holding him closer. “You said that he reacts to things like a four-year-old.”

“If he had English, I would start to assume that he’d be around seven, maybe eight years old mentally.” The old woman sighed, smiling, the expression taking her no-nonsense face and transforming it into a kinder, gentler countenance. “Tom, I don’t think that they’re drones.”

“I have to keep telling myself that they are, Dana. If . . . if they’re the children that you speculate them to be . . . how could I ever atone for my sins of killing so many of them?”

Reaching over, she stroked his cheek, then took his hand in hers. “I don’t know. Maybe you should talk to the NBEs’ leader someday.”

Pulling her hand up to his face, he kissed her knuckles, then murmured, “Enough talk for tonight, Dana. Let me put this little guy to his bed, and then I’d like to spend the night in your arms.”

“I’m sixty-one, Tom.”

“I’m still older than you, and I can still make love to you.”

“You’re only older than me by eight months.”

“I don’t care. I haven’t seen you in a year.” Standing, he leaned down and kissed her forehead gently. “I want to love you. Please.”

“You . . . don’t care about the cancer?”

“I never cared about the cancer. Let me love you tonight.”

Sighing, the old woman stood with limbs that were still strong, if stiff, and felt him wrap his free arm around her waist, embracing her with Faust nestled between them. Kissing her nose, Tom smiled and opened the door for her, seeing the smile through her tears, and knowing that he was right to come and visit his life-long love.

.o.  
2009, present day

“Thomas Banacheck, you get your ass in here, _now_!”

Ratchet blinked up from where he had been glaring down at the human whose own glare matched his own level of ferocity. He didn’t like that Dana had interrupted his own tirade towards the man, and he sighed before muttering, “Well? What did you do now?”

“I think Faust tattled on me.”

“Good.”

“I’m not giving up on this.”

Ratchet glared and snorted, seeing the man walk off into the house to answer Dana’s demands. Dana looked decades younger due to the nanites repairing what time had caused. They would bring her back to the prime years of her life, which were around thirty-five years of age, and she wouldn’t age from that point. Shoving hands on hips, he looked to Sideswipe, who was pulling the lights down with the help of several Sparklings. Jazz and Prowl had been Bonded a week, and it was time to return to the normal swing of things. The rest of the NEST team had either returned to Diego Garcia, or were about to return, and Ratchet was slated to return tomorrow morning with Ironhide, Epps and Lennox, who were waiting in Los Angeles for him. But that damn Tom Banachek . . .

“He really wants that, doesn’t he?” Sideswipe asked, feeling the gaze of his surrogate Caretaker. “The nanites. He really wants to repair all the damage that he’s done, and everything that he _thinks_ he’s done.”

“It’s not a good enough reason,” the CMO grouched, walking over to shoo the Sparklings away, using his marginally-taller frame to unhook one of the strands of lights. “I will not play Primus just to ease someone else’s guilt.”

Shrugging, Sideswipe looked back at the lights and casually flipped it off of a hook that the current strand had been hung upon. “You know that he and Dana are mates, right?”

Freezing, Ratchet blinked twice, then reviewed what he had seen of the duo. Finally, he whispered, “Well, Primus bless. You’re right.”

“ _And_ they’ve both touched the AllSpark. And neither were rejected by it. That makes them as good as Priests of Primus by our culture. Tom was talking about that when he was drunk during the second night of celebrations. Dana had wanted to test her tolerance, and she won the drinking contest between herself, Tom, and Epps. Heh. But not by much.” Sideswipe grinned. “You and Kup were already ‘three sheets to the wind’ by that point. Drunk humans are interesting to watch. You and Kup are predictable.”

“So _that’s_ another reason why he wants it.” He heard the rising argument from inside the house, rolled his optics, and moved back over to tap on the glass gently with a fingertip, giving both of them a _look_. “Are you two done squabbling?”

“He’s insane!” Dana insisted, shoving hair out of her face impatiently.

“So? So were you for wanting to go through nanite therapy.”

“But—”

“He’s your _mate_ ,” Ratchet whispered, looking between the two of them. “Why didn’t either of you tell me this before? If I had _known_ , I would have spoken more with you _both_ before I gave you the nanites, Dana.”

She sighed. “We never married. Not legally.”

“But did you marry before the Creator by a Priest?”

“Yes,” Tom said firmly.

“Then you’re the equivalent of our Bonded mates and should be regarded as such by our people. Tom, give me three months. I want your psychology tested over two months, and I’ll need to create the nanites specifically to your genetic makeup. That takes a month. I will only go through with breeding the nanites if your psychology is stable enough for this.” Ratchet’s face twisted into a wince. “I do not care to cause the split between a Bonded couple of any species. But this is a very serious step, you _must_ understand.”

“I understand this completely,” Banachek said with a gravity-laden tone.

“Good. Dana, stop harassing your mate; you may have to live with him forever.”

“God willing,” she replied grouchily before turning and stalking out to the kitchen.

Tom paused, then looked at Ratchet and leaned in closer. “With nanites . . . does that mean that she can bear children again?”

“If you successfully seed her, yes.” Ratchet huffed, not wanting to talk about messy human intercourse. All those fluids getting everywhere . . . Just ew. Messy. “The nanites have been programmed to recognize a fetus and ensure its safety and health. They will not reject it. However, that is to say that you will have to be careful if you do _not_ wish to have children, because to abort the fetus . . . all attempts will fail. The nanites _will_ protect the unborn child as fiercely as they protect Dana’s own health.”

Tom had the grace to look insulted that Ratchet would even _think_ of him capable of killing an unborn child of his own. “What of the lifespan of our children, should there be any?”

“As extended as your own, due to the combination of nanites from you both. As they are part of her body, they can self-replicate over the course of time. They will be broken down and absorbed by the body as they age, giving way to fresh nanites that have been ‘bred’ like the beneficial bacteria that reside within your own systems. That is all you’ll know for now; I have to start to order some psych evals that we had used with other aliens and have our psychologist review them with Bumblebee’s help in order to fit them to your culture. Now scram.”

Nodding, Tom moved to follow Dana with a broad grin. Rachet shook his head and walked away at hearing her indignant shout, which was soon followed by sounds of humans kissing. He stared at his own mate, who looked about to say something, when they were both hit by a transmission from Optimus. Ratchet turned to roar into the house, “Sparklings located with a human caretaker! It’s sending out stress signals and we _don’t_ want the Decepticons getting their claws on the child! Dana!”

“On it!” Whistling out the window with flushed cheeks, she yelled, “Peace! Need you to start setting up the next spare room!”

“Yes, ma’am! Virry, Tron, Fidget, Cobalt, come help me!” She turned and jogged with her Sparkling and the three others she called to start bringing bed sheets, the new mattress, a cot, and a set of towels and other necessities (which would later be color-coded) into an unoccupied room with a loft, which was the same as every other room that the humans had in the new building.

Ratchet called out on the coms, _:Prowl, Jazz, I need you to come with me as backup. Prowl, get Banachek and catch up. I have all the official papers we’ll need, and he’s a face they’ll trust. Ironhide, bring your humans and meet us there! Elita, you’re on backup with Chromia if slag hits the fan!:_

_:Got it. Where are we going?:_ Prowl asked, all business.

Giving his son the coordinates, he transformed at a run.

.o.

Skylar Freeman glared at her father and mother. “When were you going to tell me this?”

“You’re an adult now; we didn’t think that things were going to spiral this far out of control at this point,” her father replied calmly, not even looking up from his newspaper as he spoke to his daughter. “But they did, and now you know.”

“I could have known as it happened! I was _nineteen_ when they attacked Mission City!”

“You were at college and you were going through mid-terms. It wasn’t necessary for you to know what was happening as it was happening,” he replied disinterestedly.

Skylar turned, looked at the alien robot huddled back around the corner of the stairs into the basement. All that she could see of the creature were the two red pinpricks in the shadows. She had finally gotten bored that morning while her car was in the shop, and had tried to pick the lock into the other half of the basement, the half she had never been allowed into. She ended up breaking the old lock somehow, and she tossed it into the trash bin just after hearing the scratching noises stop.

Her voice was cold as she looked to her mother. “Did you ever think that keeping an alien robot in the basement and _not_ telling your daughter was a _bad_ idea?!”

“Well, not like it matters now. You let it out; you get to catch it and put it back in. It’s got the intelligence of a wolf, and a cunning one at that. Not like it’ll be any different than that zoology and those other animal classes you’re taking.” She turned back to making dinner, glaring down at the vegetables that she was slicing. “Of course, your mind is bright enough to work with electronics or to be a great asset to our military, but no. Goodness knows where you got your compassion from.”

“Gee. Grandma, maybe?” Skylar snapped, turning towards the basement door again after mentioning the woman who had disowned her own daughter.

“That is enough of that, young lady,” her father snapped, and was about to say more when the doorbell rang. “Go get the door.”

Snorting, she turned and walked to the front door, hearing a soft click-whirr from the basement.

“You stay down there!” the man roared at the alien.

_Keen._

Ripping the front door open, she opened her mouth to snarl something uncomplimentary when she saw a twelve-foot-tall robot backing up the man in the suit standing calmly before her. That startled her into silence. Both seemed to focus upon the keening coming from the basement, and the strangely familiar man asked, “I’m Tom Banachek, Miss Freeman. I was your parents’ boss while they worked for the government. We’re here for the Sparkling.”

“Sparkling?” she asked, frowning. Well, that explained why his face was familiar. She thought she remembered him from some sort of barbeque function at some point when she was a kid.

“Banachek?” the parents chorused in shock, dropping everything and rushing to the door. He looked at them both, looked at Skylar, then asked, “Let me guess; she still doesn’t know.”

“I was told today after seeing the baby alien robot in the basement,” she clarified with arms crossed over her chest and a sneer over her lips.

“Kiddo sounds pretty upset,” the silver robot said, crouching and looking at the Freeman parents levelly before aiming a charming and disarming smile to their daughter. His voice was gentle. “Both kiddos. I’m Jazz. Third in Command of the Autobots. We’re the good guys. The monster in the basement at Hoover Dam was the leader of the bad guys. Thanks for pissin’ him off, by the way, Agents. He took it out on me later. Missie—”

“My name is Skylar. _Not_ ‘Missie’ or ‘kiddo,’ just so you know,” she said with a blunt tone, glaring up at the tall mech.

“I like her already,” a disembodied voice stated before the Dodge Charger Oklahoma police car transformed into a seventeen-foot-tall mech. Skylar instantly re-evaluated her assumption of ‘tall’ upon seeing him. He nodded to her in greeting. “Prowl. Second in Command, Executive Officer. The Hummer is Ratchet, our Chief Medical Officer. Skylar, would you be so kind as to try to coax the Sparkling up here?”

“He’s probably mad, you know,” she grumbled, crossing arms over her chest. “And really scared. He’s been cooped up in one little room all of his life, so far as I know.”

Jazz leveled a glare to the parents. “Has he, now.”

Crouching, Prowl held out a small sliver of something glowing. When Skylar made no move to take it, he quirked his optic ridges up over bright blue optics, saying, “It’s not radioactive; this is a treat, like candy, for the little one.”

“What, you’re not going to try to bribe _me_ to like you guys?” she snarked, taking the “candy” for the little one.

“We can, if you’d like,” Jazz replied, settling himself down in a crouch with his head tilted to one side. “You’re eighteen, right?”

“Twenty-one, actually, almost done with my Bachelor’s Degree.”

“Good. We can bribe you. If you’d like.”

“With what?”

Prowl replied evenly in a tone that wouldn’t carry over the strong words that Banachek was having with her parents about locking a child up in a room alone for _years_ on end. “Funding your Master’s, even Doctorate degrees, an income while you attend the college of your choice, free room and board, company of those who wish to encourage you to further your education and independence, and direct access to _us_. We will be taking care of the Sparkling.”

She turned the robot candy over between her hands, looking at the prism-like quality of the light that refracted off of it before looking up and making visual contact with the mech crouching before her. “How about this. _I_ take care of the . . . the Sparkling. I feel responsible for it, since my parents never seemed to take care of it. But is there anything else you want to offer to me?”

Jazz chuckled. _:I like her already, too. Can we adopt her?:_

_:I don’t think we have a choice.:_ Prowl seemed to “purse” his lips when he thought, then answered, “I’m sure that we can continue to negotiate, but the opening conditions, do they meet your requirements?”

“I’m not arguing with them. Where would I go to college?”

Prowl’s voice was kind. “We can discuss that later, depending upon your major and if there is a local college that will help you achieve it. We have some friends and some resources that will convince a college to accept your transfer even this late in the year. Please. The Sparkling is starting to be distressed, and that, in turn, distresses _us_. We don’t like hearing children keening . . . crying.”

That decided it. Skylar turned and shoved her way through the door and skidded to a halt by the stairs to the basement. Her sudden movement caused the Sparkling to slip away in shock, making barely a noise as it returned to the formerly-locked room. Slowly making her way down the stairs, hearing _three_ large voices begin to speak to her parents, the adult whispered, “Hey, buddy . . . it’s okay. I’m sorry I startled you.”

_Meep-chirrup-chirp?_

She sat on the bottom step, still moving the alien robot candy between her fingers while she thought of how to handle this situation. “It’s pretty scary down here, huh? And my parents haven’t been the nicest to you.”

_Keeeeen._

“Hey, now, hey . . . you don’t have to cry. I’m not gonna leave you. C’mere, huh?” She held out the little piece of candy, making a “ _brrt_?” noise that her cats often replied to. It was a familiar noise, one that he hoped this little guy had heard. “Come on, here. I have something for you.”

The small red eyes blinked around the door, and a silver head turned the corner. Smiling, she turned the treat left and right a little. “See? Nothing to worry about. It’s just something nice.”

He moved catlike, maybe a bit ferret-like, and blinked his optics twice more before he came into the square of light that Skylar sat within. When he did, she sighed in shock at seeing the poor state of repair the child was in. Some armor hung as if it was broken, dented, and rust crept around the edges of a few plates as well. She whispered, “Poor baby,” as he ignored the treat and instead moved to crawl up and push himself against her warm frame, trembling like so many small animals had over the years.

That trust that Skylar had with creatures . . . that was why she was going into zoology.

She embraced the little one gently, feeling his trembling slow, then stop. She stood carefully, not wanting to jar him as she walked up the stairs, feeling him turn his face towards her shoulder and keep it there. When she checked her watch, she realized that her coming down and trying to coax him closer had taken an hour and a half. The time had just slipped by. His fingers clung to her shirt, and as she walked out into the front yard of their home surrounded by tall conifers and some broad-leaf trees, she saw more people standing with the aliens than before.

A kickass Ferrari roared up the drive, then seemed to fold into itself and roll into another form, who crouched and barked in a voice that held multitudes of anger within it, “You did _what_ to our baby?!”

“Your baby?” Skylar asked in shock, gaining the attention of everyone now that she had the child.

Prowl crouched over her, as if to protect her. “He didn’t take the energon treat?”

“No. Just wanted to come up against me. He’s chilly.”

“Stay still,” one of the three first voices said, and a tingling sensation ran over her. The . . . the Sparkling trilled in shock before going very, very still. It was the Hummer ambulance, Skylar realized when she identified the grill that was hanging off of the chartreuse chest. “His heater’s running a bit low, and he’s been severely neglected. And abused.”

Looking to her parents, who were seemingly taking a verbal beating by no less than three individuals, two of whom were in some sort of military gear and seemed to be in charge. They certainly swore like soldiers, and the shade of red that her father was turning was really worth the sight. But she turned around and looked up at the large mechs who were looking intently at the little one in her arms. “I want to make this right.”

They smiled at her words, and the Ferrari moved forward. “I am Elita-One. Right now, I am the highest-ranking Autobot on your property.”

“You out-rank the three who came here an hour ago?”

“Yes,” she replied. “My spouse is their commander, and I hold a similar rank.”

“Damn. I guess this is pretty serious. Okay.”

“The little mechling trusts you. Prowl told me that you already said you want to come with us to Oklahoma, to help raise him.”

Oklahoma? Somehow she missed that she’d be leaving Oregon. Not that it mattered. “Absolutely. So long as I can stay in college and finish my degree.”

“That can be arranged. Ironhide, stop glaring at her parents,” the commander said in her smooth voice, not even looking at the mech. “Chromia, will you mind staying here and taking the full load of her belongings to the ranch after we take her and the immediate bags with us?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you.” Settling, she looked down at the Sparkling, who turned his head to look at her marginally. Catching sight of the other Autobots milling around, he whimpered and buried his head in her shirt again.

Skylar looked at the Autobots. She wasn’t sure if she could trust any of them, but there _was_ a certain resemblance between them and the child in her arms. But he didn’t want to show his face yet. She stroked the back of his head softly, feeling the soft croon vibrating against her sternum more than hearing it with her ears. “Poor baby . . . I’m so sorry I didn’t find you sooner,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his helm, feeling his arms wrap around her neck and hold on firmly. Her sage-green gaze when she looked up through her hair was filled with steel and grit. “I can tell someone what they need to bring from my room if we need to leave immediately.”

“Right here,” a woman soldier said, walking up and grinning. “I figure that any woman would prefer not to have some strange guy pawing through an underwear drawer.” She got the list of things that were needed and where the items were located, writing them down on a pad of paper in a barely-legible scrawl, then turned to grab three army rucksacks from a pile that sat on the ground beside Ratchet. “Give me half an hour, and I’ll have everything ready for you.”

Nodding her thanks, Skylar turned to look at Ratchet. “If I convince him that you’ll help him, will he listen?”

“Hopefully,” Ratchet murmured, his broad hand radiating a gentle heat as he scanned over the still-chilly frame of the child. “Does he have a designation?”

Looking down at the optics that were fixing upon her face, she smiled again and kissed what could pass as his nose. “His name is Quicksilver.”

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Holy CRAP, this chapter came outta nowhere! I wrote it all in the day that I posted up Chapter 33. I hadn’t planned for it to be written like this at all! And I blame Dana in all entirety for her to suddenly find Banachek to be worth her time. That one was a massive surprise for me, too. To the anonymous reviewers, I love your input! Holy crow, I didn’t realize that people were really reading this from Portugal and Finland, of all places! You guys are awesome! (To the Finnish: You folks are awesome, and your language is a tough one to learn, but as I prep to portray a Finnish woman for an upcoming acting gig, I give you props for being one of the most kick-ass cultures out there.) But man, it’s a huge honor that this story is being read from every continent. Thank you, all of you!_

_So. Disclaimer time, since there are a LOT of people running around in this chapter._

_Transformers and all the people of Transformers belongs to Hasbro/Takara/Paramount/people that have more money than I do._

_Dana McLachlan, Peace Quibbley, nameless geeks and scientists and all the Sparklings belong to me, but sometimes, it feels like I belong to them and are at their mercy._

_Bryce Langley belongs to ArmoredSoul, and used with permission._

_Skylar Freeman belongs to AutobotSyds643, and used with permission. FYI, Syds? She’s conspiring with Dana to take over my mind. Again._

_Song is: **“A Thousand Beautiful Things”** by **Annie Lennox** , chosen because no matter what, Dana tried to find the best in the different situations, which is also mirrored in Skylar as she realizes that her parents have been hiding Quicksilver in the basement since she was a kid._

_**We’re getting closer to Revenge of the Fallen, and this chapter is but two weeks away from Sam entering college . . .** _


	35. Revenge Arc 7: Pageant

_**Author’s Note:** This is because I got a review that started to kick my mind around, and I already wrote most of this chapter and a half written of the next chapter. However, Maraluch stated this: “Prime will have a fit when he sees the state of the Sparkling.” This is in response to that, since I just **couldn’t** resist._

.o.

It was early morning, and the Sparklings were all bouncing around after their recharge. They were running around in circles and playing games of chase and tag. Optimus had sent off the rest of his warriors back to the base, and decided to return just one last time. He wasn’t fooling anyone.

Least of all his Sparkmate.

_~You want one again.~_

_~We only raised one Sparkling, but I will not raise a child and endanger it in the middle of our war.~_

_~May I raise one, though?~_

Turning to smile and stroke fingers along the glyphs that were etched along the side of his Bondmate’s face, stating her rank, he murmured, _~You will be **here** , my love, with the Sparklings. I can’t be here all the time. I can’t keep a Sparkling safe at NEST. But you can keep one safe here. If one of the Sparklings attaches themselves to you, by all means, please adopt them. Love them. And let them know that I love them dearly.~_

_~Cobalt.~_

He nodded, and folded Elita into an embrace, hand stroking her helm gently, aware that to humans, her size (which was half of his) would normally indicate that she were a child. Thankfully, Tom knew better by now and he also knew better than to interrupt them unless it was big news.

And it was. He was standing with Faust, who was unusually clingy, but for a good reason. He knew where his father had been last night, and he knew why.

Quicksilver. Elita grimaced. She had shot ahead of the returning mechs with Tom beside her to talk to her mate about the child, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to tell him. The news was just too distressing. And, compassionate Spark that he was, he didn’t try to force her to talk to him until she was ready.

She sighed and gave him a data-dump. If Faust was truly upset, it meant that Prowl had come back with Ratchet, and they were probably waiting around front until they had confirmation that Optimus knew what had happened. They knew what Optimus would do.

_“They did **what**?!” _ Optimus roared, whirling on his mate and glaring down at her, armor “fluffed” and optics narrowed to pinpoints. His voice was loud enough to cause the very ground to tremble.

Elita didn’t move, and stayed quite calmly where she was standing, hearing Sparklings, humans, and yes, grown mechs, scatter and all but dive into buildings. Her Spark was as strong as her mate’s, and though all the anger and hot-cold rage that ran through him, she stood with peace. “You see now why I took my time in trying to figure out how best to tell you.”

By now too enraged to speak, Optimus shook with tremors of anger.

Elita reached up and rested her hand over the insignia he wore proudly upon his chest, above and over his Spark. “Peace, my Sparkmate, my love. They are frightened enough. The child won’t even _look_ at one of us directly. He’s terrified of anyone other than his young Caretaker.”

Those words were just the key to diffusing her mate, and the rose-hued femme waited until he was settled before she murmured, “They’re out front.”

.o.

_“They did **what**?!”_

Skylar’s head snapped up and Quicksilver dove into her arms at the voice that seemed to be everywhere at once. Because of the Sparkling’s understandable fear of small places, they had traveled with Ratchet to Oklahoma, with Prowl as an escort.

“Hn. Looks like Elita put off telling our illustrious leader about Quicksilver.” Ratchet’s voice _thankfully_ didn’t emanate from everywhere. Rather, it came specifically from the speakers up front.

Sighing, the college student muttered, “Yeah, and it looks like my parents might just die at his hands.”

“Nope. He’s not _that_ bad. Barricade, well, he’s partially a Decepticon by now, so _maybe_ he’d take your parents out for the abuse that they handed to your Sparkling. Optimus will rant and rave until Elita calms him down.”

“So that’s her husband?”

“Spouse, yes.”

“Why not husband and wife?”

“We don’t have gender-specific titles for roles between Sparkmates.”

“Oh. Huh. Cool.”

Quicksilver, now looking a bit better thanks to Ratchet working on the small Sparkling with a featureless hardlight hologram, stopped pressing his face into Skylar’s chest. He looked around, blinking twice, before whirring and putting his head down upon her shoulder. For a human child, the manner would have been called “sleepy,” but for a Sparkling, it was merely, “trusting.”

She stroked the back of his helm and down his back reassuringly. That was when Ratchet opened the doors to reveal a blue and silver face looking in with compassion and concern.

“So you’re Optimus, huh?” Skylar asked, waiting until the Sparkling was “okay” with seeing the large face.

“Yes. I’m sorry for startling you and your Sparkling.”

“I’d be pissed too, if I was in your shoes . . . er . . . position.”

Blue optics watched her carefully, but then darted over the form within her arms. He grimaced, and she scooted herself closer to the door until Quicksilver squeaked in alarm. So she paused, and waited until he settled. “He’s pretty skittish, so don’t expect him to warm up to you immediately.”

“Ratchet told you about the other Sparklings’ reactions to me, then?”

“Yep. By the way, what’s going to happen to my parents?”

Sighing, he shook his head. “Not much _can_ be done, as technically, this is all Black Ops. We have very little jurisdiction, and only a handful of the organization that work closely with us know that there are fourteen Sparklings.”

“So they’re getting off scot-free?”

“You . . . do not wish them to?”

“Optimus, I’m a practical girl. I love my parents, when they’re not being complete idiots, but they did _wrong_. They neglected Quicksilver. They _hurt_ him.”

“You have a great amount of compassion towards the children of my kind.”

“And _that’s_ just the reason why. They’re _babies_.” She huffed and shook her head. “Look, I know that you’re some all-powerful leader—”

“Hardly,” he negated with a chuckle.

“—but they’re going to have to do _something_ to . . . to . . .”

“We can’t jail them. We don’t have community service. There’s not much we _can_ do,” Ratchet countered. “But we’ll leave this in the hands of Lennox and Epps. They’ll find a fitting punishment.”

Sighing, she looked like she wanted to say something, but another cheep, followed by an inquisitive chirrup-burr, distracted her. Looking down, she saw the Sparkling, _her_ Sparkling, watching Optimus. There was still fear written over the lines of the little metal body, but it was warring with curiosity. Finally, he tugged on her shirt _very_ lightly, almost afraid to ask for her attention, then pointed out through the doors. Skylar quirked her eyebrows up, then pointed to his chest, her chest, then out the door, making sure that she understood that he _wanted_ to go out and see the Big Robot.

He nodded twice, almost insistently. So she slid out of Ratchet’s interior, not worrying about the bags that were still sitting inside, and stood to face the leader of the Autobots fearlessly, almost insolently. Optimus’ face seemed to show the emotions that were running through him, and he spoke softer, not wanting to startle the Sparkling with his voice.

“Was his OS and language centers updated?”

“How would I know?” she asked curiously, not at all in the way that most people would scoff the words.

“A mech would have established a hardline connection.”

“Oh. Then no.” She paused. “How necessary is it that he gets those updates?”

“Quite. He can’t understand Earth languages without them, as our own language and the rudimentary Sparkling language is primarily centered around mathematical codes and precise intonations.” He blinked, and turned to look at the house, hearing something that she clearly couldn’t. A moment later, a small face peeked around the side of the nearest corner. Chuckling, Optimus chirped a “come hither” and the Sparkling, darted over to him, reaching up to touch his hand fearlessly.

“Hudson, where are your Caretakers?”

“Jazz is behind me. He said to talk to the new baby. Oh!” Turning, he looked back where he had come from with an almost-imperious whirr.

Iris shyly looked around the corner. “Is he afraid of the cords, too?”

Skylar was floored. _These_ were what they considered their babies? They talked like miniature adults! She blinked down at Quicksilver, then looked up at Iris. “Cords?”

She nodded, but didn’t speak further. Hudson took up her train of thought while she darted over to Optimus and sat upon his foot. “If he’s scared of the cords, if it was a cold cord, then someone might have tried to hack him. Iris had that problem.”

“Hurts,” she murmured, rubbing the back of her neck almost protectively.

“But when they trust one of us adults, we can connect and upload language and make sure that their OS is stable, as well as update it,” Ratchet said, his hardlight form gently removing her bags before it dissolved, allowing him to transform. He took his time with the matter, feeling himself stretching out, and once he was through, aimed a compassionate gaze down at Skylar. “Don’t worry if he doesn’t come to trust us right away.”

“Wasn’t gonna. Even _I_ don’t trust you guys farther than I can toss ya right now.” Crap. There she went with running her mouth again.

Neither looked like they took offense at the statement, and the medic replied, “Prudent of you. But please don’t hesitate to trust Dana and Tom; they’re truly the two keystones that we have to keeping everything that happens here, and without them, we wouldn’t _have_ the Sparklings to care for.”

Nodding, Skylar looked down at the little one in her arms. He turned trusting optics up to her, reaching up to touch her face with his little fingertips, then reached one hand up towards Optimus. He _felt_ the warmth from the large mech. He _knew_ that he could trust the Big One.

One large fingertip pushed butterfly-soft against his hand, and he warbled a still-half-scared greeting. It was returned by the mech, and Quicksilver leaned into the soft stroke over his helm and down his back. “He’ll be fine, Skylar. He’s a resilient little Spark. Don’t worry; he’ll be up to his optics in trouble with the rest of the pack as soon as he feels at home here.” Smiling, the leader murmured, “As I’m sure _you_ will be as well.”

“And you know humans so well as to make that assumption?”

“We have another young human friend by the name of Sam Witwicky. He’s about to go off to college.”

“Psh. That’s a boy.”

“In many ways, yes,” Jazz’s deep voice stated as he walked around the building and scooped his Sparkling up. “But he saved Optimus’ life two years ago in Mission City.”

Looking between the three mechs, shifting Quicksilver in her arms, Skylar sighed. “Looks like I’m going to have to catch up on a lot.”

The front door opened to the house, and a tall Sparkling looked out at them levelly. “Miss Skylar? My Mom, Dana, asked me to tell you that breakfast is ready, if you’d like to come and join us.” Three more Sparklings, all a bit shorter than this new one, looked around his frame. “We can get your bags and bring them to your new room, if you’d like.”

Frowning, she asked, “Are you sure?” Looking up at the adults, she saw them smiling proudly at the trio. “I know that a couple are a bit heavy.”

“We’re stronger than we look!” one Sparkling said gruffly.

“Cobalt, she doesn’t know that yet. And her Sparkling isn’t as strong as you four when you put your minds to it,” Ratchet rebuked lightly, smiling. Turning to Skylar, he introduced the four at the door. “The first is Faust. He’s the oldest Sparkling, and his Caretakers are Dana and Tom. Cobalt, I just identified. Behind them is Torch on the left and Tron on the right. These three are still as-of-yet unclaimed Sparklings.”

“Nuh-uh,” Torch said firmly. “Barricade wants me. He told me that when he doesn’t have to worry that I’d be hurt by the Decepticons, he’ll adopt me.”

_:And Elita has stated that she wants to raise Cobalt. However, she will tell him upon her own timing.:_ Optimus added to his CMO. Aloud, he stated, “This is also part of how we wish the children to be raised, as it is part of _our_ culture. They understand how much effort we’re putting into raising them, and so, reciprocation and helping out where _they’re_ able to do so is expected.”

Skylar nodded, then looked to the quartet still waiting at the door. “Then okay. So long as you don’t hurt yourselves carrying my bags, I’ll let you.”

Faust walked over to her while the other three started to test out the weight of the bags. He held his hand out human-style in greeting, and she took it, feeling him exert just enough pressure, then tug on it vaguely impishly towards the door and into the house, showing that for all his young maturity, he was still an excitable child. “Mom! Dad! Skylar’s here!”

An older man walked around the corner, and he smiled.

Skylar gaped for all of one moment. “What, did you _fly_ back here?”

“Elita brought me back, actually.” He rested his hand upon Faust’s head, smiling at the Sparkling that slid closer to his form.

“He’s _yours_ , then?”

“Yes,” Tom Banachek said with a chuckle, then shoved him off playfully. “Go get her bag, Faust!”

“Going, going!”

Turning to the college student, he motioned for her to follow him, entering a dining room where there were humans and a couple Sparklings seated around the table and the breakfast feast that was slowly being devoured. A slightly-older woman looked up and smiled. “I’m Dana. Find a seat and dig in. I know how college kids feel about free food.” It was the smile that did it, the simple understanding that the coffee available would be just as loved as the free food.

Skylar sat down, feeling eerily at home among the strangers, accepting a plate of home fries, scrambled eggs, and pancakes and a cup of coffee from Tom, who smiled and took his seat beside Dana, pressing a kiss to her shoulder before he returned to his own food.

That was when Skylar decided that she didn’t regret her decisions at all, and with a smile to Quicksilver and a kiss to his little forehead, she dug into her food.

.o.

Starscream loathed Barricade.

There was something more about the black and white mech that crawled under the surface, as if the ground-kisser was waiting for the completion of his own ulterior motives. Starscream didn’t like that. Only _his_ ulterior motives were supposed to work, were supposed to become the reality.

But with Barricade . . .

He remembered once demanding to know why he wore an enforcers’ form at all times. The grin that he had received was a nasty one, the words chilling. “Disobey and betray our leader _permanently_ , and you’ll find out.”

Starscream _hated_ Barricade.

He was loyal unto death to Megatron, and he followed all his commands to the glyph. Every plan that Barricade was part of the shock trooper contingent went without a hitch. He was able to organize and rally the other front-liners in a way that no other Decepticon could. In essence, he was what Starscream was to the fliers, just without the official titles.

And somehow, in a way that nobody knew for sure where the connection began, Barricade knew Megatron from _before_.

Megatron _trusted_ Barricade.

It was no secret that Barricade’s Caretakers were two of the three highest-ranking Autobot officers. It was no secret that Prowl would, and often _did_ , wipe the ground with his offspring if they met on the front lines. But, like all the soft-Sparked morons that rallied under Optimus, he never caused fatal damage to his once-child. Usually, spectacles like that had paused some of the battles, showing the skills that only a handful ever would hope to achieve.

Prowl was the last to know all of Terratron’s skills. He was what Megatron _should_ have been, were he a weak-Sparked fool of an Autobot. He was what Megatron _should_ have been, if the Lord Protector had actually taken the _time_ to master all the skills that were available to him, instead of spurning the opportunity of learning under one of the two greatest warriors of recent times. Even Starscream had known never to cross the former Prime and Protectorate. They were lethal.

Lazy fool _deserved_ to die by the hands of an _insect_.

With a sneer, Starscream paced. He had a healthy respect for Prowl and Jazz, despite his disgust of their moral natures. They had been Enforcers before the war, and they never held back when they fought, even before Megatron had exiled Nightbird and destroyed the Caretakers that had raised Orion Pax and his brother Magnus, before he had tried to eliminate Optimus with an assassination attempt. Those two were to be reckoned with, and Starscream had ensured that his Trine would _never_ come close to their hands.

Snorting, he of course remembered how they had outsmarted his avoidance.

They would be at one end of the battle-line. Optimus in the middle with Ironhide. And those Primus-forsaken glitch-processored Twins at the other end of the line. No matter what, _someone’s_ wings got clipped, ripped off, damaged . . . And with the Twins, there was usually some graffiti mixed in with it all. Really, _really_ insulting graffiti that they somehow knew that the mech in question wouldn’t be able to see in either mode, and had learned to ask a trine-mate to check for writing under all spectrums of light by the time that the battles became few and far between.

_Megatron was here. And here. And here. And I loved it!_

_I ’face datapads for fun!_

_I like Soundwave’s kink._

_For a good time, accost me._

_Three for the price of one!_

_I have a loose port-cover._

_Your cables. My port. Tonight._

_Wanna cable-tango with my Trine tonight?_

And those were the _tame_ ones.

The sound of tires on gravel interrupted Starscream’s internal rant. With a glare, he stood to deliberately disregard the approaching Decepticon. Both knew it was power games, both knew the steps in the dance.

Transforming swiftly to take the final two steps to just outside of Starscream’s range, Barricade snarled, “You summoned me, Starscream?”

“You’re using that damned Autobot cloaking technology again. I merely wished to see where you were holing up and licking your wounds.” The Air Commander continued to look out over the alien, _organic_ terrain.

Curling a lip in derision, Barricade’s growl of both voice and engine rumbled through the sensitive systems of the mech who dared to try to call himself “Lord,” causing Starscream to work hard at keeping his frame from shuddering in delight at hearing such _power_ rippling through another mech. He was such a fool for admitting it even to himself, but he lusted after those who were powerful, either in rank or in actuality. Megatron had both, but he was also half-insane after Kaon rebelled.

The black-and-white’s voice held the underlying threat in its tones. “Starscream, Megatron was always right in calling you a fool. You never think before you speak.”

“You _dare_ insult me?!”

“Yes. Coward. Are you through trying to test my loyalty to the Decepticon cause? I have tracking to do before energy signatures are warped beyond recognition.”

Optics narrowing, Starscream hissed, “Who have you been tracking?”

“Optimus. Ratchet. They have been on the mainland here and there as of late, and as I am no _flier_ and don’t care for that form, I don’t have the capability to follow them back to their base of operations, which not even Soundwave has been able to locate.”

Growling under his breath, the Air Commander hissed, “You presume that I have been inactive.”

“I presume nothing, Starscream, just that you have been following our fallen leader’s orders to the glyph, just as I have.” Straightening, he asked in a bored tone, “Will that be all?”

“For now. The _Nemesis_ is in need of energon, and _you_ don’t have the scanners available to you to go _mining_.” Waving a hand dismissively, Starscream took off and transformed, breaking the sound barrier within moments.

Glaring after the Air Commander and spitting upon the ground that the mech had stood upon, turning away to see Jazz melt out from the tree-line. “There’s your confirmation, Creator. He’s working on an agenda that he’s not willing to admit to anyone.”

Nodding, the Solstice watched the trail of the jet begin to fade. “Think that he suspects anything about you and us?”

“Him? Nah. He’s always hated me because he could never quite figure me out.” Striding purposefully towards the road and assuming the Saleen Mustang alt-mode, Barricade sighed. “He doesn’t understand that I had bought my place with Megatron though competence.”

_:And through brutality.:_ Jazz transformed and followed Barricade through the woods, switching to an encrypted com-frequency. 

_:That is true. I hold a lot of regrets, Jazz, more than I care to tell you about, more than I want to admit to, and I pray to Primus every time that I have to off-line someone. I’m a killer, and what Prowl and Terratron have taught me have only helped make me an efficient shock-trooper.:_ There was regret stamped in every line of the Decepticon’s frame, even as they turned onto a highway and the black-and-white accelerated, weaving through traffic and putting a mile between himself and his Creator.

Jazz was silent for a long moment before he replied. _:Mechlin’, I ain’ proud of the lives I’ve taken, either.:_

_:But—:_

_:But nuthin’. I knew a lot of the mechs I’ve had to take out. An’ I faced Primus with that knowledge.:_

_:. . . what did He say?:_

_:He didn’t. He just smiled an’ embraced me. He knew that I was gonna be called back here, yanno? He knew I regret all those deaths on ma hands. He **knew** me, Caders, an’ the only mech who knows me as well as Primus does is Prowl.:_

_:Still on a high from Bonding?:_ the younger mech snickered.

_:Slag off, it’s only been ten days.:_

_:Jazz, Barricade, Prime wants us to check in on the Spark-Twinned Sparklings, and you two are the closest to the Northeast. Can you make first contact?:_ Prowl interrupted their talk, knowing full well what it was about, and knowing that it was something that could be picked up again later.

_:Are you sure that’s a wise idea? Only a handful of people know that I’m not really a Decepticon, Prowl,:_ Barricade replied, receiving the coordinates of the youngest Twins.

_~Is he all right?~_ Prowl asked Jazz privately.

_~Not really. But this may help him.~_ Jazz sent a wave of love to his Sparkmate, followed with a hint of longing and understanding for their currently-separate missions. Their understanding of what roles had to be played as Autobot Officers hadn’t changed much, but how they were able to _feel_ each other _without_ a hardline was nothing short of intense and wonderful.

_:Barricade, it’s necessary. You can stay concealed if you wish. I just need you there as physical backup for Jazz if things go badly.:_

_:How am I supposed to interact with the human?:_ Jazz asked curiously, taking a turn onto Interstate 95 North, glad that they didn’t have to take seventeen roads to get to this one.

_:Hardlight hologram. Do you have enough energon in reserve to keep it powered?:_

_:Can do, lover.:_

_:Good. On a personal note, Jazz, hurry back to me.:_

_:Every time you use that growl with me, it makes me shudder, Sparklove.:_

_:. . . ew, you two.:_

.o.

Riv pushed the glasses a hint higher up on her nose while she sat crouched over her sewing machine, _daring_ the thread to get tangled again. She heard a squabble behind her and cleared her throat without turning, finishing off the line and anchoring the thread before pulling the fabric free. Turning and folding the fabric to drape it over a hangar, she looked at the twin robots she had inherited from her late parents. They looked like they were about to fight over something, but knew better than to try to do it in front of her.

She could scruff the twain. Simultaneously. And chew them out without having to say a word.

They didn’t like that.

Unplugging a tablet PC, she pulled up the picture program that she had bought and used for communication between herself and the two, sliding it over with the question mark highlighted. The program was primarily used for children who had autism and other developmental communication handicaps, but it served their purpose well. English just wasn’t easy for the kids to learn, even though she had tried several times with several methods. Something just didn’t click between their minds and her language.

But pictures and simple symbols worked.

Alchemy, the bronze twin, pouted and poked a picture of a group of toys, then pointed to what Æther, her white-and-blue sister, was holding.

It was Æther’s favorite stuffed animal.

Holding her arms crossed up in front of her in a symbol stating “no,” she pointed to Alchemy’s own favorite stuffed animal, holding one hand up and shrugging in a “why not this?” manner. While she worked on the whole “sharing” concept between the twain, she did enforce that certain toys and certain objects were personal, not to be shared, and were comfort items. They would share them when _they_ were ready to hand the toy over.

With a pout, a glare away from both twin and second “mother,” and crossed arms over her chest, Alchemy was sulking. They missed her parents as much as she did, and the medals of honor and what remained of their pay as well as what looked _decidedly_ like under-the-table guilt-money from some government organization from the last two years didn’t do anything to ease their grief.

She just knew that she had to keep to the same secrecy that _they_ had about the two little creatures that lived with them. And Riv _still_ didn’t know how her parents died, only that it was an “unfortunate training exercise” that had proven to be fatal while they were out doing something in the southwestern half of the United States.

“Sweetie, tea’s ready,” her husband called from the other side of the door into her “creative suite.” She, like all artist and creative people with the ability to do so, had created a room specifically for doing everything she needed to for making money off of creative works. Whether it was her official job as a graphic and web designer, painting for a local contest or gallery, writing one of her many unfinished novels, or her on-the-side commission-based sewing job, it was all done here.

Standing, resting a hand on each small head, she walked to the door and opened it, greeting her man with a kiss and letting him in. As soon as he had settled the tea on a table stacked with reference books on everything from various computer programs to a baby-name book, he had his arms filled with what both agreed were children, and not just really smart artificial intelligences. “Hey, girls.” Smiling, he kissed each small forehead and asked of Riv, who was sipping the tea with appreciation, “How’d today go?”

“Hit a wall with the logo, delivered the painting for the new gallery in town, brought these two out for a hike to the creek, and was just working on that costume that my friend ordered.” She settled in a chair and put the tea down. “They’ve been cranky all day.”

Nodding, the man understood how they had their good days and their bad days, just like human children. He hadn’t expected to have kids right off the bat after he said, “I do,” but that was how the cards had fallen, and even though it was unexpected, it was worth it. _They_ were worth it.

“You know that it’s almost nine, right? Have you had dinner?” Aharun asked, smiling and standing, dangling a giggling Æther at his waist with his arm hooked around her middle, and holding Alchemy against his chest, feeling her clinging to his shoulders.

The woman gave her husband a guilty look. “Got caught up and didn’t think about it,” she admitted.

“C’mon, let’s order out. We haven’t had Chinese food in, what, two months? We can afford it.”

“Yeah, I know.” Standing, she heard the doorbell ring and gave her love an amused look. “Ordered it already, did you?”

His confused blink and tilt of his head was all the answer she needed, but he spoke anyway. “No.”

As they went down the stairs, Riv looked out a window to check their driveway, frowning when she saw an unfamiliar sports car sitting almost carelessly under the trees. “Huh. Plates are from out of state . . . tourist prolly got lost.”

“I still blame your parents for building that driveway like it’s a road.”

Smiling at the old joke, she kissed his cheek and went to answer the door, her hand resting upon the blackthorn stick that never left the entryway. It wasn’t decoration; she knew how to use it as a weapon. Peeking through the curtain, she saw two men standing under the porch light. The shorter one, dark-skinned and _maybe_ only five-eight, was watching the door and smiled sheepishly when she peeked out at him. The taller, a man with olive-toned skin and clearly built like a boxer or a mixed-martial-artist, was watching out over the terrain of their small front yard.

Opening the door, she asked, “Hi. You guys lost?”

“Actually,” the small man said, his voice deep, pushing glasses back and away from his face, up over the braids sitting close to his head. “We’re here to talk to you about the twins you have.”

Chuckling, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I think you’re at the wrong house. We don’t have any children.”

“Did we say that they were human?” the second man asked without looking at her, voice decidedly chilly, still scanning the treeline. He turned his gaze upon her, revealing eyes that were too reddish to be truly called “brown.” Shaking his head, he grumbled, “The Sparklings, the two that are sitting with the man in your kitchen.”

Shooting his friend a glare, the smaller man stated, “What Cade’s tryin’ to say is that we want to see how the kiddos are doin’, an’ ta help you out with a few things regardin’ them.”

Rivka stared at the two men long and hard, hand still gripping the blackthorn walking stick.

“Like a language pack so that they understand English. An’ a place where you can bring ’em to see _other_ Sparklings,” the little man added.

“I want to see papers, ID, something proving to me that you two are from where I think you are.”

“Or?” the taller man asked with an amused look.

“Or I call a couple friends I have and we make the death of your pretty Solstice sitting in my driveway look like an accident for trespassing upon my property.”

“You _dare_ —”

“Barricade!” the small man rebuked, turning and glaring at his companion. Something passed between them, and the tall man paled and looked away with a snort. Blue eyes hard, the clear leader in the situation said, “How about this?”

And he was gone.

_Gone._

She hadn’t even blinked.

Hearing odd noises, she looked to her right, seeing the Solstice . . . suddenly become a not-Solstice.

The same voice from the little man emanated from the robot as he walked closer and crouched, careful of the stone path. “You drive a hard bargain, lady. And I can tell that you drive some pretty nice cars. Why’s the Firebird in the garage?”

“It’s a work-in-progress,” she whispered in shock, staring at the large . . . thing.

“An’ ya drive the Mustangs normally?”

“Yeah. They’re kickass cars and believe it or not, they’re not terrible in the winter,” she replied, then called over her shoulder, “Aharun! Love, can you bring Æther and Alchemy here?”

She tried later not to be jealous of the obvious reaction of glee that the twins had to Jazz.

.o.

Optimus looked at the report that Jazz had sent him regarding the youngest Spark-Twins. They were, aside from Faust, in the best condition that any of the Sparklings had been in, and had even worked on pictorial communication skills while they had been under the care of Riv and Aharun. They would stay separate from the Oklahoma estate, providing a second, even _more_ secret location and the willingness to take in other Sparklings. “So long as they spoke English, what was one more child?” they had said. Their generosity and their genuine care for Jazz and Barricade as the duo spent three days with them and the exceedingly rare femme twins was clearly appreciated by all parties.

Hell. Barricade had mentioned something about finally meeting humans who knew how to handle a Mustang with power under the hood. Prime had the feeling that Barricade would find some solace under their garage roof, despite the fact that he and the humans had shared some strong words upon meeting one another.

While Jazz was up in that quadrant of the United State, Prime asked his TIC to ensure that the university of Sam’s choice was secure. Thankfully, everything had checked out.

Turning, he looked down at Epps. “Sergeant.”

“I’m gettin’ tired of the bull-crap, Optimus. We’ve had Galloway breathing down our necks ‘on the President’s behalf’ for the last three missions.”

Settling himself down to look over the ocean with his human ally, Optimus rested his arms on drawn-up knees. “I feel the same way about the man. There is something . . . unsavory about his persistence at trying to nose his way into NEST.”

“Makes my skin crawl, man. I’m gettin’ tired of my ass being on the line and shot at.”

“Before you put in papers to retire, I’d like to speak with you about a different assignment. Something not dissimilar to Oklahoma.” Optimus’ voice was low as he spoke these words, and he gained a half-confused, but interested, look from the human man that he trusted with his life.

“Optimus!” Lennox yelled from one of the hangars. “We got a rumor!”

Standing and moving swiftly, scooping Epps up in one hand and then settling him down gently at the hangar door, he asked as they walked into the communications center, “From what quarter, Major?”

“Glenn and Maggie deciphered a code. They said that it looks like a new signature, not one of our usual nasties that like to show up and play pissing games.” Hopping up onto the catwalk, Lennox looked at the coordinates that were starting to stream in while Ironhide walked to stand beside Optimus and read the screens. The Major continued on his briefing. “So far, just rumors, but I can ask them to double-check their work and see if they can find anything more concrete.”

Which meant that he _would_ do that, and they would talk with Prowl and Jazz.

Receiving an email from his SIC regarding the Massachusetts Sparklings and wanting to station a battle-ready mech up there, Optimus read it while answering, “What continent are we looking at?”

“Mainland of Asia, probably China.”

“Keep on it. Ironhide, inform Ratchet upon the—”

“Sir! Incoming transmission from Pentagon!”

Barely containing his growl, knowing that it was shaping up to be one of _those days_ , Optimus felt his bodyguard and oldest friend pause and resume his position. The red and blue mech stood casually. “Very well. Put it through.”

Morshower came on over the secure connection, knowing that he couldn’t speak eye-to-optic with Prime, but that this was close enough. There was a look around his eyes saying that he had been harangued about something, and that his hand was forced upon this communication. “Optimus Prime, Major Lennox,” he greeted. “I have been asked some questions about some of the recent arrivals from those higher up.”

_:They’re wasting our time with **questions**?!: _ Ironhide snarled openly over the com, getting a chorus of mutters and disbelief from the rest of the Autobots.

_:Not. Now.:_

Optimus’ grumpy order silence everyone, and he replied, “I do not have the necessary time to spend upon more than a handful of questions, General. Could they not have gone through an email?”

“I understand that you have operations to run, sir, which is why _I’m_ the one asking you. I know how to keep the talk short. As you know, this session is recorded.”

“For quality assurance, right?” Epps quipped before he walked down the catwalk stairs again.

“Easy,” Optimus murmured to his friend, who nodded tensely once before he stalked off towards Sunstreaker, pulling out a chamois and thumbing towards what had become the wash-racks for the Autobots. Smiling at the eager manner that the once-again-silver-finished Twin followed Epps, he knew that both would find this to be the chance to unwind. “What questions do you have?”

“How many Autobots remain upon Earth? We understand that some touched down, and subsequently left again. How did they do that, and why?”

“‘How’ is classified technology at this time, but the answer to ‘why’ is simple. They are scouts, explorers, and have a scientific background; they are ensuring that the closest planets of your solar system are safe from Decepticon influence.” He drew in a breath and continued. “All that remain on Earth are allied with NEST. Allow me to remind you and those who listen to this recording later, that we do not answer to your chain of command, nor will we submit to answering to your chain of command, your President, your military. We operate in tandem with the humans assigned to NEST.”

Morshower kept the grin off of his face. He knew that Optimus would never name a number, but would rather infer the numbers. He knew that the leader was making sure to keep aces up his metaphorical sleeve.

“So you sent off scientists and scouts? No warriors?”

“That is incorrect. Springer, one of my trusted bodyguards from eons ago, is among them. They do not go without protection.”

A new voice spoke up. “So you sent off a soldier you could have kept _here_?”

Optimus didn’t hide the unyielding and almost-irritated notes in his voice, repeating what he had said to Lennox many months ago. “The Autobots are under _my_ command, and _I alone_ decide where they are best serving their usefulness to _me_ and the interests of _my command_. Have I made myself _abundantly_ understood?”

“Then can you enlighten us as to _why_ you would be doing this?”

“The Decepticons have never left your solar system,” Ironhide snarled, breaking rank and _clearly_ irritated. He ignored his leader’s glare. “As we are currently stationed here, trying to rid _your_ planet of their filth, making a broad sweep seems to be the best possible course of action.”

“Ironhide, the Autobots’ weapons master and technology expert,” Lennox stated, identifying the voice for those who had never heard it before. “He and I work closely in tandem for the ground operations. Next question?” He knew their body-language well enough by now that he knew that both Autobots were pissed.

“With the go-ahead for your new arrivals to have come to Earth, and with two teams touching down, one of which has taken off again, how many more do you assume will follow them?”

“It is unknown. Radio contact has another of our ships nearing the Sol system, however, they have their orders to hunt down and take out any Decepticons as they approach Earth. It may be another year before they have landed. Among their ranks is my second-in-command, Prowl, and his own second and one whom I have known most of my life, Magnus.” He settled upon his feet. “They come with some heavy-hitters.”

“Heavier-hitters than those who already came?”

“Admittedly so. I wanted competent troops quickly, not the slower-moving powerhouses.”

There was a silence for one long moment before the next question was fielded. “How many of your kind remain, Prime?”

“Unknown, but our numbers continue to dwindle, just as our planet continues to die.”

Something about the words unsettled the humans, and Morshower looked almost pleased that Optimus had said his words. “Those are all that I have cleared for now, Prime. Thank you.”

He made a noise of affirmation, but didn’t reply, turning and walking away, letting his weight and stature be heard. Lennox nodded to the other leaders, turned, and went to follow Optimus, who transformed and shot off into the afternoon, sending sand and dust flying. Shoving hands on his hips, he looked up at Ironhide. “Well. That went well.”

“Eh. He was only irritated.”

“Yeah. Last time I saw him mad, I wanted to wet myself.”

“Let’s hope you never see him infuriated for longer than a few seconds. It’s . . . sobering. Makes you realize that he _is_ the ‘first and best’ of our ranks, as his name and rank translates.”

Silence enshrouded them before the Major sighed and turned towards the washracks. “C’mon, let’s get some of that grime off of your undercarriage. You’ve been complaining about it for two days.”

.o.

Bumblebee knew the day that Sam had made up his mind.

He sat in the garage, head leaned against a rafter, his doorwings drooping.

Judy was with him while Sam was out with his father, doing some final father-son bonding time before the boy went off to college on the other side of the States.

“I’m sorry, Bee.”

“It’s not your fault,” he whispered.

She moved forward and rested one small, delicate hand upon the back of the hand that turned into a weapon. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No.”

Judy Witwicky knew that this was hard on the sunny mech, and even if she had trouble accepting him at first, even if it took her a year to not just accept him as her son’s Guardian, but as part of their small family . . . “C’mon, Bee. I know that there’s _some_ thing I can do for you.”

“No, Judy, I really don’t think that there is. Sam’s rejected me. He’s not going to tell me until he’s about to leave.” His “breath” exploded out from his frame almost-violently. “I underestimated his maturity after the last two months.”

“Bumblebee, I hold no doubt that you’re a perceptive guy, but my son is eighteen. He’s _not_ that mature yet.”

Another deep sigh gusted from the Camaro. “When does he come home tonight?”

“They’re out until after dinner.”

Then it was decided. Transforming smoothly in the small space, Bumblebee popped open his passenger door for the mother of his charge in a silent plea.

Smiling, she sidled in and he closed the door for her, firing up his hologram and easing out onto the street. When Judy reached over to touch the hardlight form’s shoulder, she wasn’t shocked to see the expression of devastation wrap around fair features that would belong to a young twenty-something. Neither said anything more, but the Autobot took them to Vegas and back before the men of the house returned.

.o.

Starscream looked to Soundwave with a sneer, feeling the Communications Officer and Decepticon Third In Command’s own frigid attitude towards him surface. He hated being around those who were blindly loyal to Megatron. _:Is everything in place?:_

_:Affirmative. We will find the shard.:_

_:Good. You have your orders. I want to be rid of this forsaken dirtball as soon as we have enough energon to restore Cybertron.:_

No answer met him, so he turned back towards Saturn’s moon and the Nemesis.

He refused to feel as if he had been dismissed by the crazy ex-Enforcer. He hasn’t been dismissed at all.

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** A lot of the last two chapters has just been setting things up for ROTF and for just after everything goes down with that movie, too. It really feels like this chapter just wrote itself, which was a relief, because I really didn’t feel like trying to labor over it like I have the prior two chapters._

_Thank you for enjoying the last chapters, even though it was all about fleshing out new OCs. And yes, on this one, I finally caved and put a self-insert in here. The Twins will have far more screen-time than my OC will. For those waiting to see Skylar again, she’ll be back, no worries, but it’ll be in certain situations._

_Skylar belongs to AutobotSyds643, and is used with permission._

_Song is: “Pageant” by Cirque Du Soleil out of their production “Ka.” It’s all sorts of organized chaos and fun._

_**Updated Note for AO3:** Yes, I changed Riv's husband's name to Aharun. It's pronounced aha-ROON with the H barely pronounced, and comes from the Egyptian "aha rw" meaning "warrior lion." I was tired of seeing the nickname of someone I've been enjoying forgetting in my story._


	36. Revenge Arc 8: Fear

_**Opening Note:** This is the chapter that I know you’ve all been waiting for . . . And warning, this chapter will contain a lot of cussing._

.o.

“H-hold on Mikaela . . . I think I found a piece of the AllSpark sliver in my old hoodie.”

_“What?”_

That was the last thing he remembered before a lifetime of glyphs, symbols, memories and a _world_ full of history maxed out all the processing space in his mind. Hissing in pain, he dropped the sliver, which promptly burned through the floor.

His Dad was gonna _kill_ him. “Fire! Dad, fire! Bring the extinguisher!”

It took a minute before he realized that his Dad’s voice was arguing in the driveway with his mother. So he poured water down the hole in the floor, hoping that he wouldn’t be _too_ badly off after this that he would still be able to go to college. Running to the door, he opened it and looked down.

_No intelligence. No real life. Just malevolent force. Subtle Decepticon programming._

What?

Then the kitchen started shooting at him.

Shrieking, he somehow managed to get out of his window and jump off of the deck roofing into the backyard. His mind still whirled, symbols and glyphs and pictures of a metal world spinning and causing his balance to tumble and fail. The only thing on his mind was that if they didn’t take out the drones, the _real_ drones, things that had Decepticon coding printed clearly in every line of their forms, that they were gonna _kill_ him.

“BUMBLEBEE!”

.o.

The remains of the kitchen and some of the siding littered the lawn, and his mother made him want to crawl into a hole and die. Sam shuffled towards the tarped-off garage with Kaela in tow to see Bumblebee knocking himself in the face.

“He still having voice problems?”

Nope. Sam knew the signs. Bee had gotten something stuck under a piece of armor, and his fingers were too big to get it out without prying the entire piece of armor out. “Yeah, he’s playing it up.”

That got him a thinly-veiled dirty look that was ruined by either a pebble or a bug of some sort falling out from under the Autobot insignia.

Sam . . . was going to regret today. He was going to regret it really, really badly.

.o.

_:Sir, requesting permission to detour before I join you at NEST? You have my official report about the drones.:_

_:Granted. Bee, what’s wrong?:_

_:Sam. Situation. Just . . . everything.:_

_:Elita’s on the ranch with Chromia, if you wish to visit them.:_

_:I know. But . . . I need something to distract me, not something to help me wallow and to wrap me up in felt until I suffocate.:_

_:Give your ‘mother’ some credit, Bumblebee. She’s kicked my aft out of brooding more times than I care to remember.:_

_:You’re her mate; I’m her child.:_

_:You do have a point. Prowl wishes to have someone up in Massachusetts to evaluate the Sparkling twins, and you’re suddenly free. Would you like to go?:_

_:Couldn’t hurt. It’ll give me something to distract myself.:_

_:And you’ll be decently close to Sam, should he need anything.:_ Optimus paused, then asked cautiously, _:Are you hoping to see someone else while you’re there?:_

The click of the com-link shutting off rudely caused the leader to chuckle and mentally shake his head as they returned from the disaster of an operation in Shanghai. When Will asked him what was going on, a door opened, the man climbed in, and within moments, was snickering and working with Optimus about a betting pool as to when Bumblebee and Barricade would reignite their romance. Those who knew about the undercover Autobot (which was most of the Autobot troops on Earth and the few humans allowed around the Sparklings) knew that he was currently enjoying hiding out in Berkshire County, Massachusetts.

But even as the friends laughed, Lennox took a pause and spoke softly to the Autobot leader. “Bee’s a tough guy, but his emotions are bigger than his Spark. It’s why he and Sam get along so well. Give him time to recuperate and rest from completing this assignment, give him the space he needs, and he’ll be fine.”

“Thank you, Will.”

“Anytime. Can’t have you brooding and moping over your kid and how you can’t be there for him.”

“Isn’t there a saying that humans use? Ah yes, ‘pot, meet kettle’.”

Snickering, Will opened the door and moved to strap himself in for the landing.

Things just seemed to go to hell from there. Epps was still grumpy about getting shot at by Decepticons. Optimus was feeling decidedly broody. Ratchet was pissed. Idiot Twins were trying to claim that they were the best-looking things on the face of the planet. “Sideswipe” was about set to trounce them . . . the only calm and normal ones were Lennox, Arcee and, oddly, Ironhide.

Optimus didn’t bother to transform as he rolled into the hangar. He was annoyed at Sam, frustrated at the warning about some Fallen, half-tempted to go sulk somewhere until he was calm enough to delve into the memories of the Primes Past and see what came up with the query of what the Fallen was. Something just seemed to niggle at the back of his processor, and he recognized the touch of his Matrix, but he heard the sound of the debriefing starting, and of course, he couldn’t miss that.

Ten minutes later, he wished he had ignored the call.

.o.

Shit. Shit shit _shit_ , this couldn’t be happening to him. Sam stared in shock at the screens before him, knowing full well that what he was seeing was (or should be) classified material, and that if the military found out that he was sharing a room with hackers and conspiracy theorists who could (and apparently did) get into servers that weren’t supposed to be accessed . . .

Lennox would have a shit-fit.

And as if his parents hadn’t embarrassed himself enough already.

“So . . . your Mom really liked those special brownies, huh?” Leo snickered, looking up at the posters of beautiful ladies and sci-fi movies visisble through the doorway.

Sam didn’t bother answering as he continued his “education” about what they knew (or theorized) regarding the whole alien invasion. He sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “So you’re saying that these aliens have been here for _how_ long?”

“Really active since Mission City two years ago, and there’s been notes that they’ve been on the planet since probably around the Egyptians. Who knows. But they’re _here_ , man. You can’t lie or keep this truth off of the internet!”

Ho, boy, was Sam giving a call to Lennox tonight.

Fortunately, he got a call before anyone could get into anything more, and he picked up immediately. “Will! Hey, bro, how’re you doing?”

“Tell your brother about the aliens, man!” Fassbinder said quickly.

“Spread the truth!” Leo added on.

Sharsky glanced up, then went back to programming.

“. . . what aliens?” Major Lennox asked, his voice filled with steel.

“Iunno, some conspiracy theory that my roomies are smoking.”

Protests rose in concert as he ducked out of his rooms and outside to the darkened campus lawn. “Oh my God, Lennox, they’re worse than Simmons. There’s _three_ of them. And they’ve gotta been hacking into places to get their info.”

“First off, learn how to speak English right. Second off, what’s their site?”

“The Real Effing Deal dot com.”

“Oh. Them.”

“You know about them?”

“Yeah, they’re a pain in the ass, but relatively harmless. They don’t have any real footage and we make sure it stays that way. Simmons is more of a problem, but whatever.” He shifted gears, and it was clear to hear it in his voice. “Now just what the hell did you say to Bee?”

Sam sat heavily upon the stairs and ran his hand through tousled hair. “Shit.”

“That’s right, shit. Because when I get a call from his _Dad_ saying that he’s sounding like he wants to crawl into a hole and stay there for a while, which he _is_ going to do until he feels ready to get back onto the active-duty list, I get the feeling that it has to do something with _you_.”

“Look, Lennox, I just want a normal life, all right? I didn’t _ask_ for any of this, and everyone who keeps asking for more is just gonna get the same answer!”

“I didn’t _ask_ to see what happened in Qatar, and I didn’t _ask_ to be a part of this either, kid, so don’t give me that argument.”

“But you’re a _soldier_ , you’re _trained_ for this stuff!”

“I’m trained to keep my ass above ground, not six feet under. And I’m trained to try to keep my men alive, but it _doesn’t_ happen like that!”

Sam was just digging his grave deeper. They’d lost people on NEST recently, and he hoped that it wasn’t anyone that he knew from over the summer. “I’m sorry, Lennox.”

“Damn right, you’re sorry! And you’d better apologize to Bee, too!”

“I will. I just want some space, all right? Is that too much to ask?!”

“You got a week so far.”

“Yeah, and I’d like some _more_ space to get used to college.”

There was silence for a beat, and the Ranger replied, “Fine. But send a text before you pass out each night telling us that you’re still alive.”

“Dammit, Lennox—” Sam started.

“Don’t you argue with me. You don’t want a bodyguard, you get to pick up his responsibilities of telling us that you’re still alive and relatively untouched. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Good. Go apologize to him. Then text me before you get to sleep. You start your responsibilities tonight.”

_Click._

Staring at the dead line in his hand, Sam sighed and looked up at the sky before standing and ambling his way back in to deal with his crazy roommates.

He never saw who was watching him from the shadows.

.o.

“What do you _mean_ , the Shard was stolen?!” Lennox roared over the com, running out of his shared room with Epps. They met up with Ironhide, not stopping to get in, just grabbing onto the bed of his alt-mode and swinging up on practiced maneuvers. “That was a _secured vault_!”

“Well it got stolen!” came the just-as-angry reply. “We suspect Con activity!”

“No shit, really?!” Lennox replied sarcastically. “Get me all video feeds of that bunker, inside and out, and have them ready for Prime when he gets there!”

“We haven’t heard of him since he stormed out earlier!” the man on the other end replied frantically.

“Ratchet, go find him!”

“Already on it,” the CMO replied evenly, probably between breaths of chewing their already-irate leader out. He and Ironhide were clearly the “mentors” to the younger Autobots.

“Arcee, Sideswipe, get everyone ready for transport!” Hearing their affirmatives, he looked to Epps and asked over the wind, “Ironhide? Thoughts?”

The engine roared and the mech’s voice sounded no different than his block. “Time to kill us some ’Cons.”

.o.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked, half under his breath as he turned away from the pissed-off blonde that had tried to seduce his brains out. She was, well, _creepy_ didn’t even begin to describe it, and the fact that she had been watching him since the moment he saw her . . . yeah, not cool. Stalkerish. The fact that he just drew some freaky-looking Cybertronian glyphs in the icing of the cake was freaking him out enough. Now his car stalks him down and the chick with the hot body whose very presence made all the hair on his body stand to attention in _all_ the wrong ways starts sitting in his lap . . . his day was really starting to suck more than his first day on campus and his Mom eating the hash-brownies.

But crap. He hadn’t expected to see Bumblebee at _all_ , and he hadn’t even gotten to offer his apology after two days. He just didn’t know _how_ to say it.

There was a half-stutter of the engine before it caught pace again in an almost-sullen manner. Sighing, getting back into the driver’s seat, Sam pretended to drive as Bumblebee said softly, “Optimus is on the mainland. He needs to speak to you.”

“Gawd, Bee . . .”

“Oh, don’t worry. I wouldn’t be here unless it was ordered.”

The bitterness in the mech’s voice caused Sam to throw his head back against the headrest before wincing and remembering, once again, that his car was alive. “Look, I’m sorry. I just . . . I want a normal life.”

_He keeps repeating it like a mantra, like it’s the only thing that matters._

Shaking his head at the random thought that didn’t feel like it was really his, Sam sighed. “Bumblebee, I’m really sorry. I really am. Freshman can’t have cars, and I don’t want you to wind up looking suspicious hanging around in some alleyway. You can have a purpose with NEST again. I _know_ that you missed doing some of the missions.”

“Sam, have I ever told you what my favorite mission has been?”

Blinking at the seeming change in the subject, Sam replied, “No?”

“Keeping your ass out of danger.”

The teenager blinked. “What? Why?”

The usually-bright voice was dark, sullen, close to the “brooding” tone that Optimus often spoke in. “I’ve been one of the few wunderkinds of the Autobot Army. I’m one of a few young mechs who have been ‘blessed’ with gifts and talents that make us invaluable to our leaders.” Sighing, he muttered, “Myself, Blue, Sunny, Sides . . . Pit, even Cade. Us five, with a few handfuls of others _are_ the youngest generation that have survived the war, aside from the Idiot Twins. And we somehow are the ones that _everyone_ depends upon. I _like_ not being in the spotlight for once. I _like_ protecting you. It gives me _space_ from everyone else.”

Sinking down in his seat, Sam sighed and rubbed at his face. His voice was low. “How come you never told me this?”

“Would it have changed your mind? Would it have made you want to bring me with you?” At the resulting silence from Sam, the Autobot sighed through his vents and murmured, “I thought as much. So tell me. Is this personal? Is this about _me_ or is this something just about _you_?”

“What? What gave you the idea that it was personal?”

“You weren’t exactly nice when you were telling me in front of Mikaela that you didn’t want me to come with you.”

Sam winced and looked out over the passing landscape. “I’m sorry, Bee.”

“So is it?”

“Is it what?”

“Personal.”

“No. I want to keep in contact with you. You’re my first car, man. You’re my best friend. But I just don’t want you getting more bored than you already have been.” He winced and rubbed at his face. “I swear, this sounds like we’re lovers or something.”

Bee gave an electronic snort. “We couldn’t fulfill each other’s desires. Simple as that.”

“Yeah, I’ll leave that up to Barricade for ya.”

Thank God that they were on a back road, because Sam nearly went through the windshield at Bee’s break-check. “Out.”

“What?”

“Out. Now.”

Hearing the tone of voice that Bumblebee clearly inherited from Elita, Sam got out of the car in a hurry, soon facing down several tons of pissed-off alien robot. It took the sun-bright mech a moment to say something, which made Sam all the more worried. That meant one thing.

He’d unwittingly and successfully pissed off his best friend to a point where their friendship was on the line.

“Sam, I’m tolerant of a _lot_ of things from you. I’ll handle you telling me that you need space. I can understand you wanting a normal life; I wanted a normal life, once, but I never got it. I’ll deal with your jokes. I’ll _laugh_ at those jokes, even though sometimes I still don’t understand human behavior. But one thing I will _never_ tolerate is you making assumptions about _my_ romantic life, or lack thereof.”

“That’s kinda harsh, coming from the guy who pretty much set me and Mikaela up, don’t you think?” he retorted, spurned to anger at the fightin’ words coming from his Guardian. “I mean, she and I wouldn’t be together if you hadn’t intervened. Twice, even! And she’s not even sure she wants to stay with me!”

“You live shorter lives! I can handle the time and distance between myself and Cade if I _need_ to! You, on the other hand, have _ninety years maximum_ , Samuel! A _hundred_ if you’re lucky and take care of yourself! And if you wish to settle down and have children, _that’s too short of a lifetime_.”

“That’s no argument, Bumblebee! You know that’s no argument!”

“What the _slag_ is going on here?” Barricade’s distinctive voice growled as he walked up the deserted street as carelessly as if he were at home on Cybertron. “Primus, you two squabble worse than Sideswipe and Sunstreaker over who gets to be the one to pull off their latest prank.” Resting hands on hips, he glared at the duo, unconsciously looking like Prowl’s usual state of you’ve-just-used-up-my-last-whit-of-patience.

“Piss off, I’m talking with Bumblebee,” Sam snarled at the mech who scared him worse than any other he’d met, Megatron included, back when that crazy-ass fragger was alive and trying to swat him and grab the AllSpark.

Quirking one optic-ridge up at the boy’s mannerisms, Barricade smirked. “Oh, you are, are you?”

“Cade, not now. I need to talk with Sam,” the scout replied in a deceptively-calm voice.

“About me.”

“Yes, about you.”

“Uh-huh.” Turning, he looked down at the human. “He’s scared I’ll steal you from him, that I’ll take away your friendship with him.”

“Am not!” Sam replied, knowing that he sounded like a three year old with his words.

“It’s what all humans fear when their best friend becomes involved with another. They fear that they lose the friendship that they’ve invested a lot of time in.” Crouching down in a manner not unlike Prowl’s own, Barricade said in as gentle a voice he could muster, “That’s not how Cybertronians handle our friendships or our relationships. You and Bee share a friendship that is much like a titanium-spun thread tether. It will not break. It _must not_ break. You and he are keys to each other’s sanity and survival right now.”

“And how would you know?”

Not taking offence at the tone, the mech replied, “I’ve known Bee since he was a Sparkling and I a Youngling. We’ve been friends most of that time. I know when someone becomes important to him. And I am _not_ jealous that right now, your importance to him means more than my importance to him.”

“Barricade . . .” Bumblebee warned, not quite sure of what the undercover agent was up to.

_“Bumblebee, he has to learn something. He is **not** the center of your universe, even though he’s pretty darn close right now. You’ve had a lot of pain in the war; we all have. He’s your therapy. I understand that. He doesn’t know that yet. But I will not have him causing you trouble because he doesn’t understand where you and I stand,”_ Barricade murmured in their native tongue, a series of musical clicks, blaats, whirrs, chitters and sweeping notes across a harmonic scale. To Sam, the message lasted for only a handful of seconds; to Bee, the message felt like it was a lifetime.

Bumblebee nodded, putting himself in a slightly-submissive pose, his gaze dropping in understanding of what the real problems were. Sometimes, he really didn’t understand humans, and this was one area that he hadn’t expected to be dealing with.

“Think on why you object to the idea of our romance rekindling, _if_ we choose for it to continue. Bee has my contact information if you come to a conclusion.” The mech walked past the duo, took two running steps and swan-dived into a graceful, fluid transformation that had him peeling out and shooting off down the street.

_:Where are you going, Cade?:_

_:Off. Out. I’m supposed to be trying to hone in on Optimus’ signal.:_

_:Are you all right?:_

_:No. I’m going back to Massachusetts. I want to lay low for a while.:_

_:And you’ll be providing interference and additional backup if Sam gets in trouble.:_

_:I’m not his secondary Guardian and technically, I’m still an embedded agent. I can’t rescue Sam. I can’t even look like I like the brat right now, so that he continues to treat me like I’m an enemy.:_

_:So that’s what this is about as well.:_

_:Yes.:_

_:Stay safe.:_

_:You too.:_

Rubbing at his face, oblivious to the com-link chatter, the boy whispered, “Bee, I’m sorry.”

“So’m I. Pit, I forgot how enigmatic Cade could get . . . he’s as bad as Prowl on some days.” Transforming, the mech opened his door for his friend. “But he’s right, you know. You don’t have to worry about losing my friendship if he and I were to become close again.”

Sliding into the bucket-seat that fit him perfectly, Sam leaned his head back against the rest and sighed. “All right. Let’s see what Optimus wants.”

Three hours later, he wished he hadn’t said those words.

And he wished that he had the courage to confide in the one mech who knew what was happening to him.

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Everything up until the last page was written and easy to put into place. Then I had numerous creative blocks across the board. Barricade showed up, then decided to say, “screw off” and waited for me to **do** something with him in that scene, Sam does **not** feel like cooperating (typical teenage boy), and I’m not even halfway through this arc and DOTM plotbunnies are breeding._

_And when I say I have DOTM plot already written out, ho boy do I have it! I think that this story could reach 100 chapters . . . and I hope that it is continued to be read even if it becomes that insane of a monster. Also, if I didn’t get to your review, it’s because I started a job and am trying to balance everything out between that and the upcoming Renaissance Faire season._

_I know that it’s partially filler, and I’m sorry for this getting up later than my usual once-a-week update, but like I said, life and my muses took a few days to kick my aft around without any rewards. What I wanted to do with this was to give some insight of what would be between scenes in this AU. Chaos up next!_

_Song is: “Fear” by Sarah McLachlan, chosen because it’s got that tentative, winding-up-to-the-situation feeling. Both the studio and live recordings are amazing. And for the line, “But I fear I nothing to give/I have so much to lose.”_

_Please, if you can, YouTube these songs. They really give you the emotions and feelings of what I wish to convey to my readers, and sometimes, they’re the reason why I’m delayed in posting a chapter . . . I want the song to fit what I have for you._

_**TL;DR- I have finicky muses, DOTM plotting is making me insane, sorry for the filler, new job and making sure hours work out right and please listen to the songs, especially the one from this chapter! You guys rock, thank you for all your reviews, watches, and favorites!** _


	37. Revenge Arc 9: In My Life

Optimus replayed the conversation he and Sam had shared in the graveyard as he watched the sun come over the treetops. He was alone in the graveyard, the Matrix active, the Ancient Primes feeling closer than their usual distance, wondering and working with him to try to make the wisest decision in this situation. Looking down where the boy had stood, the Prime spoke.

“Prowl. Jazz.”

They melted out of the trees, having followed him as unofficial bodyguards while Ironhide stayed with NEST.

“I need your minds.”

He replayed the conversation a third time, looping them in real-time. He needed to know what it was that unsettled him about the boy’s mannerisms. And they were experts for tactics and cultural adaption, xenolinguistics and alien body-language. They watched through Optimus’ gaze at the interaction.

_“Huh. You won’t give me a week, huh?” Sam had said, climbing over a ledge, Bumblebee waiting in alt mode behind him. “You won’t give me one week in college.”_

“Kid looks nervous.”

“I agree,” Optimus murmured.

_“I’m sorry, Sam. But the last fragment of the AllSpark was stolen.”_

_“Stolen, like, what, Decepticon-stolen?”_

_“We placed it under human protection at your government’s request. But I’m here for your help, Sam, because your leaders believe we brought vengeance upon your planet. Perhaps they are right. That is why they must be reminded by another human of the trust we share.”_

_“This isn’t my war.”_

“Samuel stands defensively.”

“Agreed. Jazz?”

“Kid’s trying to deny something. Dunno if it’s his failing relationship with Mikaela, or his involvement with our race and war. It certainly _is_ his war, Optimus. He knows it. He knows that there’s been a connection between his family and the leaders of Cybertron since his great-grandfather discovered Megs chillin’ on ice.”

Prowl narrowed his optics at the recorded words that Optimus had spoken. _“No. Not yet. But I fear it soon will be.”_

“Why did you lie to Samuel?”

Wincing, Optimus began to answer, but he was clearly cut off by Jazz. “You remember how you were resistant to becoming a tactician, Prowl? Not wanting to become the very thing that drove Detrious to death? Th’ kid can’t handle knowing how much we already rely upon him. An’ we can’t tell him any of that until he’s willin’ t’ pick up that responsibility to our race.”

_“Your world must not share the same fate as Cybertron. Whole generations, lost.”_

_“I know. And I’m . . . I wanna help you. I do. But I’m not some alien ambassador. You know, I’m a normal kid with normal problems. I am where I’m supposed to be.”_

“Buulll,” Jazz growled, then sighed. “Damn.”

“Samuel and I, when I was at his maturity level, share many of the same traits of wanting to run from that which scares us the most: fate.” Prowl rested his hands upon his hips, head bowed in thought. “Optimus, he is still young yet. Why did you press this?”

“We need him,” the Autobot leader said firmly. “We need his words, his sincerity. He holds many of our secrets, more than Lennox and Epps know. This, you both know and understand.” Venting air, he continued the recording.

_“I’m sorry. I really am.”_

_“Sam, fate rarely calls upon us at a moment of our choosing.”_

_“You’re **Optimus Prime**. You don’t need me.”_

_“We do. More than you know.”_

The top three Autobot officers stood in a sketchy triangle, facing each other as they contemplated all this. Finally, Optimus broke and began to walk carefully among the graves.

“He’s lying to himself, you know,” Jazz called after his leader, sighing. “But I just can’ figure out what he’s lyin’ _about_.”

“Time will tell. Return to Oklahoma. With the Decepticons starting to become truly active again, I cannot risk your discovery, nor can I risk the Sparklings.”

“Yes, sir,” the Bonded mechs chorused, watching their leader’s heavy shoulders disappear among the foliage.

“She-it,” Jazz muttered before he and his lover transformed and returned to the highways. This was a situation that they _clearly_ didn’t need to deal with right now.

.o.

_Wet._

More than just “wet.”

_Waterlogged._

Snarling, optics activating, there was a moment of peace, staring up at faint lights surrounding him, the flowing shadows abstract and wavering. Then they snapped into focus as some former-Guard, former-Militia. Combiner. Gestalt.

_The boy._

Death. Darkness. The Pit.

_AllSpark._

Gone.

Rolling to his feet in swift movements that spoke of a lifetime of gladiator duels, Megatron looked around him, grinning savagely at seeing the symbiote Ravage. Soundwave was in orbit, then, just as he had commanded the mech to do before he had perished. He pushed off of the sea floor with the activation of his jets, leaving roiling, boiling water behind him as he surfaced. Seeing the primitive submarine-type watercraft of a species useful only because of their prolific mating abilities, he grinned, deliberately aiming for it.

After all, all work and no play makes for an irritable Lord Protector.

He shot into the atmosphere, opening vents, dragging air through waterlogged systems and clearing them out before he shot into space. The last thing he wanted was his frame to be frozen again.

“Lord Megatron.”

Slowing to a halt beside the considerably-smaller Soundwave, he allowed himself a laugh. “Soundwave, loyal as you have always been.”

“I serve only you.”

“Good. Make sure you keep it that way, and I’ll continue to let you live, perhaps even give you your own city once Cybertron is revived.”

“Public positions: unwelcome. Serving Lord Protector: preferred.”

“We shall see. Continue to monitor this disgusting organic planet. Have you been in contact with your Pretender?”

“Affirmative. She is close to the target.”

“I have some business to take care of. When I return, we will set and spring the trap.”

“Affirmative. All Hail Megatron.”

Shooting off over the moon, he paused, seeing something that he hadn’t seen before and settled himself just upon the dark side, staring at the wreckage and the marks where crates, items had been dragged from the ripped-open cargo hold.

“The _Ark_ ,” he whispered, moving closer, careful so that his footsteps weren’t pressed in distinctly. The last thing he wanted was to cause his backup plan to fail. Smelt it all, so the old pain in the aft actually made it.

Walking in, seeing the dead bodies of Autobots, he grinned. They served their purpose well. Megatron laughed in the lack of atmosphere, pressing the release that would open the doors into a chamber he knew so well. Sentinel, running on a few ounces of energon and fumes, came into view. “Well, now, fancy seeing your stasis-locked aft in once piece,” he mocked, walking closer and looking at the secondary seat. “And with your guard-dog so faithfully watching you, too.”

He pinged Soundwave with a query, getting the answers. So, they already had human agents. Well, the insects would be lead to believe that they were important. For now.

Terratron would be a problem, if the mech were to wake up. He had more fuel in his system because of his tank size and the control he always was able to exert over his Spark and frame, able to control how much precious energon it absorbed. It was a wonder that his old Spark was still going strong. But this was his secret. And he couldn’t kill Terratron. Not yet. To injure the frame in a way that _wasn’t_ related to a crash-landing would stand out when they led Optimus to this place.

So he would wait.

For now.

“I will see you dead, _mentor_ ,” Megatron snarled into the stillness. “I will see your Spark extinguished and your frame rusted. I don’t need your precious skills to rule. Puah! And you will see the death of your precious Prowl, just as Prime saw the death of his precious Jazz. You will die _hopeless_.”

Laughing, Megatron closed the cargo doors, making sure that they stayed jammed partially open in the same position they had been in when the humans made their footprints in here. He had to see about the spawning of the drones, the “hatchlings” that Starscream was so enthusiastic about breeding and rearing. Those creatures weren’t much more than animals.

He never saw violet optics activate malevolently, nor heard the guttural, roiling half-snarl, half-growl of a mech whose own vows would not go unfulfilled.

.o.

The symbols kept coming and going, distracting him. His dreams were filled with things that were, things that _must_ have been, but were far too amazing to actually _have_ happened. There was a level of reality to his dreams, a level of complete understanding that this was what was, that he didn’t usually get. Sam stared at the ceiling, his mind going through and processing what he had seen.

Metal cities beyond the term “vast” to a human scale.

Individuals who were born, loved, laughed, cried, grieved, and died.

Sparks.

Millions, _billions_ of Sparks.

He rubbed at his face. He was going crazier than his great-grandfather.

“Yo! Sam! Time to get up! Astrology One-Oh-One is callin’ our names! Dress code says no sleepwear, and dude, you smell like you slept on an engine all night long. Like gasoline, man. What, your ‘friend’s car’ has a bad gas problem? I’m still pissed that you haven’t told us that you had a Camaro! Damn! That’s one slick ride! Think that you’ll help us snag a couple of the Freshman Fifty?”

Groaning and rolling out of bed, ignoring the questions out of practiced habit thanks to all but living with Miles during the summer, Sam grabbed a towel, shampoo, toothbrush, and shuffled off to the showers. After cleaning himself up and brushing his teeth while under the hot stream of water, the boy walked into the room just as Sharsky, who was _way_ too alert this early in the morning, was hissing, “Another sighting! And it’s in-state, man!”

Snarling unprintable curses under his breath, Sam moved to keep an eye on what the guys had found. He rubbed at his eyes, then squinted. “What, they couldn’t capture anything in HD?”

“You almost sound like you might care, Samuel,” Leo teased, grinning.

“I’ll be hearing you guys complain because of pixilation on this for at least two weeks.”

Fassbinder snickered, “Yeap. Noob knows how it really is, man! Woah.”

There was a suddenly-sharp shot of the alien, and Sam blinked.

It was Optimus. And two others. One silver, one white and black.

“Mother damn.”

“Denying the truth anymore, Samuel? Load it, fellas! FTJ!”

Thankfully, his alarm went off again, causing Sam to flinch, grumble, and go in search of his clock. He pulled his phone out and texted Bee: _PROBLEM. op 2IC 3IC sighted video online roomies realeffingdeal site._

The response was instant. _On it._

It took thirty seconds. Sam pulled his bag together for the day, grabbing a pack of Pop-Tarts. He opened his mouth to say that he was going to class when three groaning screams of inarticulate rage chorused through his room. He had the feeling that everyone figured that they were playing Halo or something because of how noisy they were. He peeked into the second room timidly.

“Uh, guys?”

“It’s the government! Dammit, I _knew_ it!”

“Uh . . .”

“Government’s keeping a lid on the aliens,” Leo grumbled, leaning against his desk and staring blankly while his mind whirled. His open palm hit the side of the furniture once, and he sighed explosively, looking genuinely frustrated at not getting “the truth” out there and not just obsessed with something so that he could be famous. “They _have_ to be. As soon as we tried to get that video up, it was _gone_. Looks like this is an official conspiracy to keep the public down and out of the info loop.”

“But if that’s the case, why haven’t they just shut down the sites?” Sharsky asked, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

“Freedom of speech?” Sam guessed.

“Naw. This means that it’s government. The speed that they hacked was insane. I’ve heard rumors of two hackers who can do _anything_ , and I’m bettin’ it was one of them. The video’s down _everywhere_. Not on the site we found it on, not on our servers, and _not_ on our computers or backup computers. As a rule, we download and lock down everything that we upload. We got _nothin’_ in our files systems anymore.”

“Hackers?” Sam wondered out loud.

“All we have are first names and online handles. Maggie and Glen. PoizinIvy and Riddler. If I ever meet them online or IRL, bro, I’ll wet myself like the excitable little puppy I am.”

He’d have to pass _that_ bit of info onto those two. “Well, that’s nice and everything, but we have class to get to, right? So I’m gonna shuffle my way over there now.”

One hour later, Sam resisted slamming his head into a wall repeatedly. He ignored his phone. He could see the symbols running through his mind. They flew through the air. They crawled over his hands, over his books, over his computer and television screens. He was hallucinating. Crazy was inherited, some said, and his great-grandfather was fruitier than a Christmas cake. Mikaela was coming. Bee was worried, and his phone kept ringing off the hook, which was a dead giveaway that his Guardian _knew_ something was wrong.

Why couldn’t he just have a _normal life_?

The boy buried his head in his arms, feeling the crazy start to take hold again.

.o.

There were three things in life that he cared about. Fuel. Pleasing his masters. Surviving. Not always in that order, either, and not all three had to weave together for him to be happy.

Right now, Wheelie was surviving. He was in a box. The girl had the shard. They were going somewhere. Probably to the boy.

The boy had more information.

Wincing, probing at his ruined optic and hissing at the painful errors that ran across his HUD, the young mech sighed, wondering what his masters would do. They wouldn’t come after him, that was for sure. They claimed he was a maintenance and scrap drone, but that if he had performed well on this mission, Soundwave would give him the honor of becoming one of his “children.” But everyone knew that Wheelie was just this side of useless, when you compared him to true symbiotes like Frenzy, Rumble, Ravage, Lazerbeak and Ratbat, for starters.

They wouldn’t come for him.

And drones didn’t have Sparks.

He rested his chin upon his arms.

Drones didn’t remember being _transferred_ from a Sparkling body to a drone frame because the metal was needed for repairs and his Caretakers were dead.

Drones weren’t Younglings.

Clicking softly, Wheelie buried his head in his arms.

Drones weren’t valuable.

Sparks are valuable.

Then why wasn’t he valued?

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Short chapter this time around. Sorry for that, but sometimes it happens. I gave you a few good long chapters just prior to this, so I feel pretty justified in only putting up 7ish pages of text that feels as fragmented as ROTF did. I did this deliberately, so please don’t shoot me for this._

_BTW: HOLY CRAP! Over 400 reviews?! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I can’t believe that this story has come so far. It’s all because of you guys._

_Song is: “In My Life” by The Rasmus._


	38. Revenge Arc 10: Release

_It’s real! It’s all real! I was right!_

Those were the first thoughts through Leo’s head after he stopped panicking about everything. He didn’t realize that he was speaking out loud until Sam’s voice, _far_ too calm for this, was yelling, “Yeah, you were right, she’s an alien robot, now _move_! Just run! Shaddup!”

Once they were inside the library, hiding, another thought occurred to her. “Oh my _God_ , I can’t believe I almost had sex with her in my dream!”

The beautiful girl beside him blinked and rolled her eyes. “Ew.” She turned to look at Sam, who was apparently her “ex.” “I can tell that you really missed me a lot, _Sam_.”

“It’s not my fault!” he hissed back.

Leo ignored most of their argument until he perked up at the words “stomach tongued by a mountain ox.” That was an almost poetic was to describe being violated by an alien. Leaning around the gorgeous lady, he watched their interaction continue until he had a chance to pop in with, “She violated your orifice with her nasty alien probe? She did it? She went in there?”

After Sam puked all over the floor, time sped up again as Alice discovered them.

This was _not_ his day.

And when he found himself looking at the real thing, two _really_ massive alien robots, he realized that Sam hadn’t been bullshitting him about the fact that Alice was a _baby_ in size comparison. All that he could think of was that his roommate _was_ involved with them.

“C’mere, boy. _Closer._ You remember me, don’t you.”

Apparently more than involved, if it meant that this I-just-crapped-myself-scary-huge robot with the somehow cold and beady red eyes really did know Sam. And Sam _spoke_ with it. Not without fear, but he was _coherently talking_ with the alien. Like he really had met him before, and like he was _used_ to addressing thirty foot robots _daily_.

Hell, maybe the guy _did_ talk to guys as huge as this mother-effin’ _monster_ in front of him on a daily basis. Who knew?

On one hand, Leo felt like he was the luckiest guy on Earth. On the other, he had the distinct feeling that he was gonna die soon anyway, so he was the shortest-lived luckiest guy on Earth. Pity that he couldn’t score with the gorgeous girl beside him before he died. That would just make it all better.

.o.

“Sam, what did he want?” Optimus demanded as they raced out and away from the old factory, recalling his Autobots to follow his signal and join him. There was a tension to Optimus’ words that normally wasn’t there, an intensity that Sam had forgotten about in the two years since Mission City.

Rubbing at his face and coughing, his throat raw from two painful intrusions, Sam whispered hoarsely, “I should have told you last night . . . I shouldn’t’ve been so stupid not to think I couldn’t tell you last night, that I couldn’t just _trust_ you.”

“Boy,” the old mech replied firmly, but kindly, “I need you to calm down. What did Megatron want?”

“AllSpark information. It’s in my head. All of it.”

“It . . . that’s impossible.”

“It’s _not_ impossible if it’s in there! It’s _there_ , Optimus! I see symbols! I’ve seen your planet in my sleep, your people, your _culture_ , the beginnings of your entire damn civilization! I’ve been hearing voices! I’m going insane, just like my great-grandfather did!” Ashamed of the stress-induced tears that were rolling down his face, Sam turned his head away. “I read through a four-hundred-page astronomy book in less than four seconds. I _understand_ things that I shouldn’t be able to understand. Einstein had it _wrong_!”

“Easy, boy, easy, now. I have you. Easy.” Optimus’ voice, despite his _own_ shock, was soothing, calming. But the mech was shocked when Sam curled up towards his seat, pressing his face against it and holding onto it as tight as he could, as if _Optimus ___was the only one he really trusted.

Maybe it wasn’t that far from the truth.

“Why do you call me ‘boy’?” Sam murmured, pressing his face against cool leather.

Optimus wove through traffic skillfully, moving swiftly towards uninhabited land where civilians wouldn’t be harmed when the battle broke out. “Because it is the closest I can translate a term of endearment. I call Bumblebee ‘my mechling’ when he needs to be reassured. You are still young, not a man yet, and it is the closest you can understand to—” He _whoo-click-chirped_ in a tone that was, despite being alien, comforting and encompassing. It was almost as if Sam was embraced by the large mech, curled to the broad, strong chest as if he were a toddler again. That’s the way that those words sounded, the way that they curled around a part of his soul that he hadn’t known _needed_ Optimus’ possessive fatherhood.

“I know the glyphs for that.” He drew them out over the leather seat.

That almost startled Optimus into going off the road in shock. “Primus, boy.”

“Yeah. I can’t say the sounds and I don’t know what they really _sound_ like until you match them up for me. But I know the language. I can _feel_ it, Optimus. It’s all running through my mind! And there’s this one circle of glyphs that I have no idea what it means and it’s repeating itself over and over again. It’s like a broken record and it’s not letting up!”

“Write out the opening glyphs,” Optimus commanded, taking an off-ramp at a speed no human vehicle could. When Sam did as he was told, the leader frowned. “Two more glyphs, please. . . . Frag me!”

“Sorry, can’t, incompatible,” Sam joked weakly. “And Elita would kill me for trying. She’s scarier than you are.”

Releasing a rare, breathy laugh, Optimus murmured, “This is the opening glyphs of a location . . . _here_ , on Earth. We’ll get you to it, but I’m not sure _why_ it would be calling to you.”

“What _what_ would be calling to me?”

“The runes and glyphs are specific and used only in _one_ particular situation. It an artif—”

A movement out of the corner of his eye caught Sam. “Here he comes!”

Optimus did three things at once. He transformed around Sam, grateful for having had a Sparkling and knowing how to move in such a fashion when the child would be recharging in his carrying hold in alt form. Second, he immediately uplinked with Prowl, feeling the strategist stop _everything_ and focus with instant intensity upon what Optimus was doing. And finally, the Prime brought to the forefront of his mind all the most brutal fighting moves he knew as he rolled with Megatron, releasing Sam as gently as possible to roll him away from the battle. “Hide, Sam!”

And then he attacked his once-brother with a ferocity only a few knew he possessed.

“Weak! Puny! Waste of metal! Junkyard scrap!” He snarled, uprooting a tree and outright _swatting_ Megatron with it. His mind returned briefly to a happier time, when a good fight between them would bring aggression down and help them negotiate with each other.

Prowl shoved that thought away in Optimus’ mind, focusing him upon the present. _That_ was why he and Prowl shared minds in some battles. Prowl used his still-unmatched processor _ruthlessly_ to keep Optimus focused.

He was a whirlwind of Pit Fighting moves, Metallikato and Crystalocution. There was no time for deflecting and diverting strikes. There was only time for ripping, rending, tearing, destroying. Starscream shrieked in shock when he was held upside-down and kicked away. Shaking his head and getting to his feet, the Air Commander stared with mouth gaping and panic beginning to weaken his resolve, his movements faltering.

He had never seen the Prime move like this.

He never _knew_ the Prime knew all the fighting styles.

Terratron and Prowl taught Optimus _everything_ they knew.

And slaggit, they were gonna die if they didn’t coordinate their attacks!

“Is not the future of our race worth a single, human life?” Megatron snarled as he advanced upon the Prime.

“You’ll never stop at one,” Optimus growled. “I’ll take you all on!”

.o.

Cussing constantly under his breath in their native tongue, Prowl held his helm, curling himself down, sitting propped up against a tree with Elita, Jazz, First Aid and Chromia guarding him in a fashion that they had used many times. They were well-used to his cussing out Optimus when like this. They were opposites in their natures, and while they could work together seamlessly and coordinate Optimus’ movements, that didn’t mean that they were _perfect_ together while using this technique.

Elita knew why Prowl was cussing. Her mate was out-numbered and out-gunned, but he _had_ the skills to take three large mechs down without taking too much damage to himself. He just had to stop _thinking_ and let his instincts take control. When that moment finally happened, she vented and shuttered her optics, feeling _all_ instincts rush rampantly through his Spark. She secretly reveled in this moment, reveled in feeling the sheer, raw power that ran through her mate. He was stronger than she was, but was gentler at the same time. Yet when he would let loose like this in battle or in the berth, she _knew_ that his raw nature was the perfect match for her own.

Then his Spark hitched, lurched at a cue that wasn’t external, but rather _internal_.

“No,” she whispered in shock.

_“Primus, no!”_ Prowl shrieked, just an instant before—

He wasn’t in her Spark.

“Optimus?” she whispered, blinking. _~Optimus?!~_

Nothing. Nothingness.

It was as if he had never been Bonded to her.

As if she never had a Sparkbond with him.

There was just a blankness, a glass surface where his fire and his embrace had been.

Rage.

“Elita! Elita, no, come back here!” Hands grabbed at her, holding her and trying to keep her from running off to either kill Megatron or to join her Mate in the Well of All Sparks.

“Let me go!” the femme-commander shrieked. “Optimus!”

“Primus, hold her down! Slaggit, someone get her legs!”

“Jazz, come help us! Prowl’s fine!”

“I know he is! He’s out from shock! Woah! Slag me, but she’s pissed!”

“No slag, Sherlock!”

Someone tackled her legs and she thrashed, trying to free herself, stripping a few gears while struggling. “Let _go_! I will join my mate or kill that waste of Energon who dared to take him from me!”

“Elita!”

“Sideswipe! Get over here! Grab her legs!”

“Holy slag! Yessir!”

“Elita, you will either calm down or so help me I will knock you senseless!” Jazz, suddenly before her face, roared into her audios.

“But Orion is _gone_!” she snarled.

“And killing yourself won’t bring him back!”

“I would rather die than not feel his Spark against mine!”

“I know,” Jazz murmured, his voice suddenly soft, understanding, static-lined with stress and emotions trying to break free from his careful hold. “I know. And I know that the last thing that Optimus would want . . . is your needless death. Don’t let his be in vain, Ariel. Don’t let Orion die in vain.”

Going limp with a keen of complete despair, Elita sobbed, feeling herself gathered up into Jazz and Chromia’s arms, supported by them, between them, as they held her while she grieved.

Optimus was gone.

.o.

Prowl came to with a sigh. He looked up at the clouds above his head, the contrast of the cheerful blue and white sky at odds with his black mood. He rubbed at his face, then sat up, grateful that the soft earth cushioned his doorwings. _~Jazz?~_

 _~Elita’s out cold. Overcharged, blew a few fuses and First Aid is currently sitting by her and making sure that she stays in recharge without any nightmares. Sideswipe is brewing more high-grade to keep her numb for a while. It’s the only thing we can do until she’s stable again.~_ The silver face leaned around Prowl’s doorwing, looking up at his lover’s gaze. _~Ironhide and Ratchet don’t want to make the call to the humans. They’re too distraught.~_ A cube of what was somewhere between mid-grade and high grade was pressed into his hand. There wasn’t enough power in the refineries to process medical grade, but this was as close as they could get for his emergency stash. He sighed and downed it, even though he hadn’t officially crashed.

_~Where are they?~_

_~In the forest, where Optimus fell.~_

Nodding, he punched through the communication lines until he found the man he was looking for. Epps called for his superior, who sat down. “This is Lennox.”

“Autobot Two-Eye-Cee,” Prowl said in way of identification and introduction, knowing that he couldn’t say his name on the airwaves. “Lennox, Prime is dead. He fell defending the boy.”

Silence for one long moment before the man whispered, “Where’s the boy?”

Forwarding the question to Jazz, getting an answer, he responded with Jazz’s words. “With his guardian, in hiding. They have the younger set of twins as backup, which isn’t preferable, but we _must_ keep certain other capable warriors and faces _out_ of the military’s sight. I’ll have a few unknowns trailing them to give additional backup as needed, but do _not_ attempt to contact and you will deny knowing that the boy has adequate protection. As of right now, I am the highest-ranking Autobot commanding officer. Ratchet and Ironhide will comply with my orders, and will be the faces of Autobot Command for NEST until we can identify and determine who the next Prime is to be.”

“Yessir. God, this can’t be real . . .”

“I wish the same, Major.”

“How can you be so _calm_?”

“My unique processor setup. I will process my emotions at a later date, when I have the luxury to mourn properly. The Three-Eye-Cee will attest to that fact. Right now, get Prime’s frame secured and await further orders.”

“Yessir.”

“And Lennox?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful. Megatron is alive. I don’t know how. But there’s more going on here than we know.”

“Yessir.”

“Two-Eye-Cee out.” Cutting the line, Prowl pulled Jazz closer to his frame, sighing. Hudson, their precious little Sparkling, rested his hand upon his leg, then scaled it and his torso to curl over his frame. Prowl held his hand over the Sparkling, sighing. “Hudson . . .”

“You gotta lead. I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for? Jazz said that you’re the leader now.”

“Until the next Prime is chosen.”

“Will Elita be all right? Cobalt is worrying.”

“I don’t know,” Prowl replied, sighing and shuttering optics. “I don’t think any of us is all right, and I don’t know if we’ll be all right any time soon. But one thing will never change; we will _never_ stop loving you or caring for you.”

Jazz curled himself closer to his mate and child, shuddering with unreleased sobs and keens. He had loved Optimus like a brother, trusted him with his very Spark and existence uncountable times.

The day was dark to their sight.

.o.

Sam sat alone. He rubbed at his face, listening to Leo’s phone catching signal as he listened to the local and national news. He was the reason why Optimus was dead. He was the reason why there was now going to be no peace for the world. They were looking for him. They were trying to flush him out like a hunter would flush out their quarry.

There was no safe place to go.

_For a warrior, for a leader, there is never any safe refuges aside from a comrade’s presence._

Damn voices.

He heard the casualty reports. He heard the devastation.

_Peace. There is reason. Keep hope. You have the answer. You just have to trust us and you have to learn how to trust yourself._

Sam cradled his head in his hands, trying not to rock back and forth.

_You were born for this, Samuel Witwicky. Why do you run from this?_

.o.

Leo sat away from Sam, away from everyone. One of those damn twins had followed him, making sure that he was all right. “Look. We’s young, we’s stupid. And we’s jus’ lost our Prime. Sorry dat we’s bein’ obnoxious.”

“I don’t wanna hear it, man.”

“S’cool. But I gotta make sure ya a’ight, a’ight?”

“Does none of this _bother_ you?! The running, the hiding, the fact that any moment now, you can be killed or taken somewhere and experimented upon?!” Leo broke, throwing his hands around and pointing up at the mech. “You’re _aliens_ and you’re invading!”

“Nuh-uh, man, dat’s a lie. We ain’ here ta take oveh. We’s here ta help _protect_ dis dirtball. Dunno why, we ain’ trusted with officer-level securtee, but we’s know it’s worth fighin’ f’r. Da Cons, now, dem’s some bad news, ya know what I mean? _They_ the ones who wanna take oveh.”

There was gravity in that voice. There was a certain firmness to his tone that was at odds with his young nature. Leo looked up. “Which one are you?”

“Mudflap. Lissen, bro: Bumblebee’s already been ’sperimented on. He’s older’n us, but not by much. We unnerstan’ why humans’re ’fraid ov us. We’s bigger’n yous. We’s scary. We ain’ fleshy, we ain’ anythin’ ya’ve seen b’fore.” Mudflap crouched, then rolled on his heels to sit against a wall. “Leo, lissen. We’ve been runnin’n’hidin’ our entire lives. Slag, we was jus’ _Younglin’s_ , barely even that, when we wus tossed inta civil war. It don’ bother us anymore. We worry ’bout a few thin’s, sure. But we ain’ about ta panic oveh every little thin’.”

Letting his head fall between his shoulders, the college kid sighed explosively. “This is just too much.”

“Naw, ain’t really. Ask Sam or Bee about his reactions when dat fleshie met us.”

“Bee doesn’t talk.”

“He talks! Ya just don’ have da hardware ta hear ’im!”

Looking up at the roly-poly Autobot, Leo asked softly, “Will we be all right?”

“Dunno. That’s war f’r ya. But we ain’ goin’ down without a fight.”

A sun-bright face looked in through a window, optics dim. Seeing the duo, he nodded and chirped to Mudflap. _:We have backup on the way. Chromia and Bluestreak are on their way here from Oklahoma. Sideswipe is staying there on the ranch and Sunstreaker is staying with NEST.:_

“Wait, _what_?!” the twin spluttered, optics widening in total shock.

Smacking his face with his hand, he amended, _:Yeah, uh . . . that’s really been Sunny that you’ve been mentored by. We have a lot more Autobots on this planet than we’re letting the humans know.:_

“Damn! So . . . a’ight. Makes sense. Anyone else I have to keep an eye out f’r?”

_:Nothing more than the usual. Make sure that you obey any orders you get from a command-level channel. Do not question either the officers or try to figure out identities.:_

_:You sayin’ that we have the full Autobot Command **here**? On **Earth**?! Why weren’t me and Skids told this?!:_

_:Because you two haven’t proven that you can keep your mouths shut for longer than four breems on end. There’s a slag-load more that’s been going on, but you and Skids are grunts, not part of command, not part of high-clearance. You’re not the only ones who don’t know the full scope of what’s been going on in the last several months. Now keep guarding Leo. Last thing we need is for him to give in to panic and let those damn Decepticons know where we’re holed up.:_ Turning away, Bumblebee stalked back out to the center courtyard of the abandoned prison, settling himself opposite Mikaela.

She didn’t know he could talk. She didn’t have that clearance.

She also didn’t know about the Sparklings. Prowl. Jazz. The numerous other Autobots who touched-down since they had found the children.

But her silence was welcome.

His Spark ached. Looking down at his hands, he knew that she had no idea who Optimus was to him. She only knew that Bee was one of a handful of mechs who worked closely with the Prime. “Bee, I’m sorry.”

Looking up at her, he shrugged, finding a clip and quoting, “It’s no big deal, honey.” Turning and looking to where Sam had stalked off to again, he added, “I’m worried . . . about the . . . boy.”

“He hasn’t said anything.”

His optics found her eyes, and he nodded once, pointing to her. That was precisely why Bumblebee was worried.

.o.

Scrap metal.

Lennox stared at the corpse.

That _bastard_ called Optimus’ battered, war-torn frame _scrap metal_. He sat on Ironhide’s foot, trusting the large mech while Ratchet carefully inspected the damage. He and Sunstreaker moved his frame with great care and respect, the still-silver form gentle. Every so often a soft keen would rip free from his voice, and he would always choke it back amid static and stutters. Ratchet paused and reached over to grip one comparatively-small shoulder, then returned to what looked like a non-invasive autopsy.

Epps walked up and settled himself beside Lennox on the broad black pede. “Any news?”

“We have no location of the kid, but Bee reported in saying that he’s safe. We have backup trailing them with backup.”

“Who’s the backup?” Graham asked, walking up on Lennox’s other side.

“My mate,” Ironhide murmured softly, just loud enough for the humans to hear him. “She didn’t want to leave Elita alone, but there’s far too much riding on the survival of the boy right now. She’s with our top gunner, since he needs distance anyway.”

“When Ratchet said that you should leave . . . did he mean Earth?” Graham asked.

“No. He meant leave this country and find another one that would help shelter us and that would give us the proper respect that we deserve.” Blue optics in a black face looked down at the trio of humans that sought comfort and shelter by his bulk. He felt responsible for them. They truly were so much like his Sparklings that the thought of their death caused his Spark to ache. “We could not ask you to follow us. You have your oaths.”

None of the three responded, but Ratchet walked around Prime’s frame, bending to rest his hand upon the helm of his friend. Continuing on with Sunstreaker to meet with them, he stated softly, “Well, he was terminated with a double-blow. Sword through the chassis, which just missed his Spark chamber. Megatron didn’t miscalculate. If I hadn’t overhauled Prime’s torso several millennia ago, he would have killed our leader. The sword passed under his Spark-chamber, nicking it, but the containment fields were still active. Since he wasn’t about to try to pull free an go for a second thrust, because Optimus had fought and won battles with that particular wound before, he charged his weapon and fired through Optimus’ torso. It fried his containment field generator, his Spark lost containment, and was extinguished in the blast.”

Rubbing at his face, he sat, feeling the warm and slight bulk of Sunstreaker pressing against his back, needing the physical touch to reassure himself that Ratchet, at least, was alive. “Do the humans know about . . .”

“Vaguely. There are other circumstances that are troubling to me about his death. Details that he did not wish shared with many humans. You don’t know what it looks like, not directly, but you three have heard about our Matrix of Leadership. There are two. One with Sentinel, who has been lost, and one with Optimus.”

“So . . . is it in there?”

“Yes and no. The Matrix is an artifact that can survive literally anything. The Ancients had technology that we haven’t had a slagging chance of researching and emulating. The Matrix takes one of two forms. Sand-form and Complete. The Sand-Form is when a free-standing Matrix, one that has not been aligned with and integrated with a Spark, has been handled by one who is not a Prime, or who doesn’t yet have the ability or capability to become a Prime.”

Graham grunted. “Almost like how the Ark from the Bible would kill people who weren’t priests when they touched it.”

“Almost, and yet not quite. If you wish to compare the human artifact of the Ark to anything from our own faith, you would be better off in comparing it to the AllSpark, but even then, it’s a rough comparison at _best_.” Ratchet sighed, shaking his head. “The Matrix, in Complete form, will usually declare its bearer openly, like a beacon or an all-call to any Cybertronian. We would know by now who the next bearer is, but there hasn’t been any signal from it.”

“What’s that mean, then?” Lennox asked.

“I don’t know. But it looks like the Matrix returned to sand-form prior to Optimus’ death, taking refuge in a tank that was specifically for that one purpose.” Standing, holding Sunstreaker close in an embrace momentarily, Ratchet looked up at the darkening skies. “Let’s get Optimus loaded up.”

.o.

“There was nothing you could do,” Mikaela whispered, her voice holding that edge of friendship and yet, seduction.

“Yeah,” Sam whispered in return, his tone something between resignation and a query.

She leaned in as if to kiss him hesitantly, but he turned away, gently pushing out of her arms. He didn’t need kisses right now, and he didn’t need someone to help him feel better. He needed to address something. “Bee? If you hate me, I understand.”

Wincing, looking away for a moment, Bumblebee knew that Sam _knew_ why this was hurting his guardian so much. Shoulders slumping, he almost spoke, but he looked away, remembering orders from Optimus to only use his voice if absolutely necessary around Mikaela.

“I messed up. I’m sorry.”

And Bee had the words. “Young fella . . . you are the person I care most . . . in my life. If there’s anything you need, I won’t be far away.” His heartbroken gaze bored into Sam’s soul. He sighed and moved to sit down.

“But he’s _dead_ because of me. He came to protect me and he’s dead.” 

“There’s some things you just can’t change. His sacrifice for us would not have been in vain, hallelujah!”

“I’m gonna make things right, I’m gonna turn myself in.”

“But we’ve got to stick together!” Bumblebee transformed, moving just that hint closer. Wherever Sam went, he was going too. No questions asked. He was _not_ leaving his charge alone _again_.

“You’re not going to do that,” the girl said as she watched Sam walk towards Bumblebee.

“Yes, I am.”

Igniting his engine and shooting a few inches closer, Bumblebee gently rammed his prow into Sam, pushing at him. “Everything we’ve worked for would be wiped out in one day.”

_The writing’s on the wall._

Writing.

Optimus said something about the glyphs.

He _knew_ the glyphs!

Wouldn’t the others know about the glyphs, too? Bee didn’t know all of them, but there were a few that he had written upon the iPad that had been translated. Most of them, though, were unable to be translated by the scout.

Strangely enough, it was Leo, who returned from his sulk, who had the answer.

.o.

Simmons was a man whose entire existence had centered around the NBEs. He was enthralled with them. Some liked to call him obsessed. He could see that, though, because he didn’t have the capability to interact with them regularly like the Witwicky kid or Lennox. He was obsessed with all that could have been if he had been able to be in constant contact with them. He was obsessed with trying to research and figure out _everything_ about why they had been on this planet and how _long_ they had been on this planet.

He was specifically told that if he was found interacting with them illicitly, he would be jailed and tried for treason. He could do all the conspiracy theories that he wanted to, but no communication.

“Robowarrior. Know ’im?”

Simmons stared at the kid he competed against for cutting-edge NBE conspiracy theories. Punk. “Never heard of him.” Just his luck that the day after a hundred NBEs on the red-eye express decided to come and play on Earth, he’d have _this_ jacktard show up to play a pissing game.

“What, you’ve never heard of TheRealEffingDeal-dot-com?”

“Oh, you must be talking about that amateur blog site with GameBoy level security.”

“It’s my lucky day. Robowarrior. It’s him! That’s the guy!”

Simmons looked back up from the deli counter to see the one person he never wanted to see again in his life. “Naw.”

“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” the Witwicky boy breathed.

Closing down the meat shop, Simmons leaned in real close to the kid. “You know I can’t be seen talking to you.”

“You _know_ this guy?” Leo accused snarkily.

“Yeah, he’s an old friend,” Sam replied, still in shock. Four glyphs ran down Simmons’ back before he turned. Sam wished he knew what they meant, but he would have to settle for storing them away in his newly-photographic memory for later perusal and translation.

“‘Old friend’?! You’re the case that shut down Sector Seven!” After a few more “pleasantries,” he pointed up at the screen, acting out a bit more than was necessary. Being a servant of the public for so many years, he still worried about the public, the civilians. “They got your face up all over TV, alien-boy. And NBE-One is still kickin’, huh? How’d _that_ happen? Don’t answer, I don’t know what you’re hiding but I don’t want anything to do with it. So goodbye, you never saw me, I got _bagels_ to shmear.”

“No, no, Simmons, look, I need your help.”

“Reeeaallly?”

After the breakdown of what the kid had gone through, he winced and ran his hand through his hair. He had info, and the kid was letting on that he knew more than he was able to tell. If he could help Witwicky out even a _little_ , things might turn the tide and they might not end up being used as footballs for the Decepticons to punt around. “Meat locker! Now!”

.o.

Wheelie’s box had been shoved, rattled, mishandled, dropped, gone airborne, at least twice each for all the aforementioned sensations. He had heard Starscream and Megatron’s voices, felt himself picked up and toted along, bouncing and smacking his bad eye against the walls of the locker he was still locked within.

When everything was still for an hour, he fell into an exhausted, emotionally-drained recharge. At this rate, he’d never get out of this box, and he’d never get a chance to do what he needed to do.

“Decepticon,” a voice murmured around him. “Kid. Wake up.”

“What?” Oh. He was still in the box. Who was talking?

“Do you wish harm upon my humans?”

“Harm? You kiddin’ me? Warrior Goddess took out my optic without even tryin’! I doubt that I could harm ’em even if I tried my damnest!”

“You can call for backup.”

“Psh. Naw. Ain’t happenin’. After gettin’ discovered, I’m as good as scrap. Nobody’ll come an’ get me. I promise ya that.”

“So, essentially, you are thus rendered a prisoner, stuck with us Autobots and our allies.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Think on this, little Decepticon: If you even _think_ about putting out an SOS, you will regret it for the rest of your short life.”

“Says you!”

“Says the mech that can transform and _forget_ to transfer you to my subspace pocket in the process. I am _not_ in a good mood and I am _not_ tolerant of threats to my humans.”

“ _Your_ humans?”

“They are mine to guard.”

“Huh. Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine, I won’t hurt ’em! There’s no reason at this point, anyway.”

“Good.”

The trunk was opened, and Wheelie felt his box picked up and carried somewhere cooler than before.

And when it was cracked open, for one flash of a moment, he felt like he wasn’t abandoned anymore.

He wanted that feeling more and more often.

He wanted a home.

He wanted someone to belong to.

He hoped that maybe, just maybe, the humans or their Autobot buddies would know if anyone could help him.

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Wrote this in about 5 hours tops. I’ve had the Forest Battle side-story bit planned out and all but written down for about three, four months now, but the conversation between Optimus and Sam really just managed to slide itself into the story without even needing any help. Please don’t maim me for doing this. There are certain parameters I wanted to hold onto as much as possible from the movies. I’m just filling in the gaps._

_And go figure that as I open up Wikipedia to research Petra a bit more, there’s something in there about Egyptian temples. Way to be reading my mind about what I’m writing about, Wiki! Next chapter is half-stalled until the thoughts in my head go from being nebulous to actual words._

_Also, the reason why I’m not answering any reviews as they come in is because I can’t answer anything on my phone anymore. Trying to reply to reviews crashes the browser, and I have no idea why that is._

_Updated this quickly simply because I had it written for about a week or so. Very many thanks to everyone who has been writing reviews and pressing the buttons saying that you’re following or adding my story or my profile into your favorites. I see the hits this has been getting, and I’m so very, very grateful to everyone for following me this long. There’s still another long haul after we get through ROTF, including a breakup scene we all wish we could have seen!_

_Song is: “Release” by Afro-Celt Sound System. Go look up or listen to the words. Seriously well-crafted song that I’ve been keeping in reserve for this chapter._


	39. Revenge Arc 11: Good Luck

TWDTH 39 Revenge Arc 11  
Good Luck

Jetfire was old enough to recognize a person of extraordinary significance when he saw one. He had been a Sparkling around the ankles of the Primes when his Seeker parents had Sparked off. (And that was a secret he kept to himself and would bring to his grave. It was a knowledge that could be detrimental until this Civil War was over.) Even if all his scanners were still malfunctioning and those that were able to boot were booting up slowly, he knew that the boy who knew his language was going to become great to not just his native people, but to the universe at large. He was needed.

But the boy, like many others of his age, was still trying to fight himself, to fight destiny. Having seen the glyphs, the ones that clearly read as coordinates to not just an energon source, but the familiar and awe-inspiring command of an heir on the ascent . . .

“Primus, I know you’re listenin’,” the old mech murmured, his Spark feeling younger just having been around the boy. “An’ ye sure have a strange sense of humor. But what a way to wake up.”

For the glyphs had read:

_Behold now the location of the Matrix of the Harvester. Behold now before you the Bearer of the Matrix that awaits him in the Tomb. Behold My Will. When dawn alights upon the dagger’s tip, three kings will reveal the doorway._

The boy . . . was a potential Prime.

Jetfire grinned up into the heavens. There was still one living Prime, albeit a human potential, even if he was a child! And he had met the first of the newest generation of Primes. Optimus would be revived. That much was certain and undeniable when one took the time to read the determination in twin pools of boiling chocolate. And even if the boy was only a Herald of the Prime, he was clearly affirmed by Primus to hold a Matrix, so long as he continued to prove himself. At the very least, the boy would be the first true Priest of Primus in a very long time.

If, of course, the brat didn’t convince himself that a human life of monotony was worth turning his back on everything he _could_ have.

.o.

Prowl sighed and ran his hand over his face. Elita, who had mentioned to Cobalt that she was adopting him, was in no shape to be around any of the Sparklings right now. Femme and compassionate though she may be, she was curled around her chest and weeping, keening. They had moved her to the “honeymoon shack” that had been built for himself and Jazz, residual energy from their glorious Bonding still clinging to the stone walls. “Elita, you need to fuel.”

She didn’t answer, not that he expected one.

Sideswipe opened the door. “They’re shipping everyone back to Diego Garcia,” he whispered, just as Ironhide pinged him the updated orders.

“They want to do that, _fine_ ,” he hissed, _thoroughly_ displeased and grouchier than he had been in a decavorn, opening a com-line to Ratchet. There would be blood in the water after this move, but it wasn’t anything they could avoid. _:CMO.:_

_:Two-IC,:_ Ratchet replied calmly in greeting.

_:Do you need Sunny with you?:_

_:Not unless you need him more. Spark-dampeners didn’t do the trick?:_

_:She’s nonresponsive enough. I didn’t want to chance it and First Aid didn’t want her to go any more numb than “thoroughly drunk”.:_

_:I’ll have a hardlight hologram in his place and will send him out right now. How is Bluestreak?:_

_:Not as bad as we would have expected, and keeping him busy trailing the boy will keep his mind intact until we figure out what the slag we’re gonna do. If it was me that we lost, well . . . doorwingers berserk. He’s done it twice before, as you remember.:_

_:You and the Twins were the only ones idiot enough to approach him.:_

_:As one with a berserker side, I know how to calm another. I notice that you didn’t mention Smokescreen’s capability for calming our little brother down. However, that is why I need Sunstreaker right now. He and his brother are capable warriors, as well as mechs who care deeply for those who mentored them.:_

There was one long pause, then, _:He’s on his way. I wish he was as good as Jazz at getting out of places unseen, but he knows why you need him there.:_

_:So what’s the verdict with Optimus’ Matrix?:_ Prowl asked as Sideswipe gasped, no doubt hearing the plan. The silver twin reached out hesitantly to touch Prowl’s hand in thanks, only to have that hand reach around and drag his helm closer, holding it against one shoulder as if the capable, fierce frontline warrior were still just a Youngling, embracing him.

_:Sand-form, no glyphs visible stating the next Bearer. I scanned Optimus’ last thoughts, and you know as well as I do that there was no indication that a new Bearer was to be chosen. However, I found something interesting. The Matrix hit sand-form right before Optimus was killed. Literally within micro-seconds, to be honest. His Spark jerked at the lack of contact with the Matrix, and he reacted with panic, thinking that Sam was injured, and somehow, Megatron was able to get behind him.:_

_:And ended him.:_

_:Yes. There’s also a span of fifteen minutes that are encrypted several times over and locked down, seemingly fragmented unless you know all of his personal encryption keys. It appears to be the time between him leaving the old factory and arriving in the forest. Elita probably can break into that memory, but I can’t ask it of her. He found something out from the boy, though, that much is certain, and he didn’t trust anyone with that knowledge.:_

_:Interesting. I’ll see what Bumblebee has to report, and will direct the intel back to you, Creator.:_

_:Prowl, I will be fine. I’m worried, but I will be fine.:_

They signed off from the coms simultaneously, knowing what each hadn’t said. Sideswipe turned to leave with Prowl as First Aid arrived to take his shift with keeping an optic on Elita.

Ratchet was far from where he would be fine.

Prowl did not like leading and was afraid to tell those whom Optimus had sent off-planet that the Autobots’ beloved leader was extinguished. He and the twin walked in silence to where the Sparklings sat playing with each other in a complicated game that Kup had taught them. It involved manual dexterity and adaptability. Three Sparklings detached themselves from the boisterous game, running up to Prowl and Sideswipe as they approached. Iris launched herself into the air, trusting her Caretaker to catch her and throw her up even higher. She _loved_ being in the air, which was unusual for most Sparklings, though it _would_ be ironic if she were to become a Seeker-model, a jet.

Hudson and Cobalt merely ran to Prowl, who crouched to pick them up and embrace both close to his Spark. The aptly-named dark blue Sparkling whispered, “Is she getting better?”

“It’s only been a day, Cobalt. I don’t know.”

“I don’t like that she’s not doing well. I want to be around her.”

“Soon. We just have to give her a little more time. Can you help us in that?”

“Okay.”

Not two hours later, Sunstreaker tore up the dirt access road, his beloved paint, a deeper, more illustrious silver than Sideswipe’s, scratched and muddied up to hell and back. It was a sign of his maturity over the last several millennia that he wasn’t protesting the superficial damage as he transformed in a whirl of pebbles and dust, greeting his twin and Sparkling, pulling them close and feeling his half-Spark align and settle.

“Iris, we need you to stay with Dana for a while. Can you do that?” Sideswipe asked, walking with his twin to the door, where the firm mother stood with the ever-faithful Faust at her side.

“Uh-huh. I like Dana.”

Smiling, Sideswipe settled her down, then said, “If you need us, tell one of the adults, and they’ll ask for us. We might not be able to come, but we need to help Elita feel better.”

“You’re gonna give her hugs? Because hugs make me feel better when I’m sad.”

“We’re going to do just that,” Sunstreaker promised, leaning down to hold his hand out to Faust. “Hey, punk.”

“Hothead,” the almost-Youngling teased back, but he rested his hand across two fingertips.

“Faust!” Dana rebuked, but couldn’t help but grin with the large twins.

“Hey, he’s got a point!” Sideswipe teased further, grinning at his brother’s growl. He and Sunny didn’t have much more time than that as they half-ran, half-drove to where Elita was holed up. First Aid continued to sit with her, but when he saw who was at the door, he wisely stood and walked out, ignoring the Sparkling-like whimper of pain that protested his departure.

_~Slag, she’s overcharged if she’s refusing to speak any adult language.~_

_~It’s worse than just that, and you know it. Take her other side, Sunny.~_

_~Will you stop calling me that?! Primus, it’s humiliating.~_

_~Whatever. Look. She needs to feel some sort of Spark-echo or she’ll start going truly insane. She’s not like Jazz and Prowl . . . she’s more like you and me. She’s been Bonded with Optimus for over ninety percent of her life. She **needs** to feel something, or she’ll lose her sanity. She doesn’t have a Matrix to continue to press against her Spark.~_

With that, Sunstreaker laid his dinged, scratched form down beside the dusty, dirtied rose armor, feeling Sideswipe do the same, their Spark echoing between them, washing over Elita’s own Spark with waves of comfort and understanding. There was no words, but the keens she emitted in complete heartbreak was enough for the twain to ensnare the femme between them, curling closer to protect her.

After all.

One of the safest places to be was between twin frontline warriors, if you couldn’t find a Prime or sane Lord Protectorate to shield you.

.o.

“This is such a mistake,” Lennox bemoaned, eyes taking in all the Autobots lashed down securely for transport. None of them had liked it, but in the face of the growing threat of Ratchet _and_ Ironhide teaming up together as the two officers left, not to mention the almost-silent buzz in the back of their com-units that indicated that two more officers were currently listening in and did _not_ approve of their actions.

Turning, the man couldn’t but help to look at Optimus’ shell. He winced, rubbing at his face. As much as Optimus could go from stillness to action with a bare thought, it was hard to see what remained of him as so utterly _silent_.

“Major Lennox! Phone call!”

He and Epps turned to look over their shoulders at the man who had called for them. Walking over and picking up the receiver, he pressed a small button in his pocket that Ironhide had handed off to him some time ago. It was the “hey, listen up” button, Ironhide had said. It alerted the Weapons Specialist to hack in and bug the line he was listening on. Human encryption didn’t matter to anyone with their processor speeds or com-encryptions.

The voice that ran into his ear was oddly familiar . . . and he was glad that Ironhide was listening in once he realized who it was that was speaking to him.

_“Lennox! I’m with the kid. The kid. You know, the one with the attitude, right? I need the truck. The truck. We’ve got a possible resurrection going on over here. You’re not gonna believe where we are. Code Tut, as in King Tutankhamen, back of a one-dollar bill. Coordinates for air-drop are twenny-nine-point-nine north, thirty-four-point-eight-eight east. Get it? Write it down. Crap! I gotta go!”_

Then the line went dead. Lennox blinked at the receiver in his hand, then to Epps in shock. “You’re not gonna believe what I just heard. Burke! Meet me at Ironhide!” he roared. Walking towards where the Autobots were loading up, he jogged up into the large plane and asked softy, “Two-Eye-Cee get that singing telegram we just got?”

“Affirmative. He doesn’t have your global coordinate system integrated into his processors yet,” the large black truck muttered as the sun dipped below the horizon.

Burke came up, patted the wheel of one of his favorite mechs, and said, “Major?”

Handing him the piece of paper with the coordinates, Lennox said, “Find out where these drop coordinates are. Reassure the men, but don’t tell them that we might have a plan.”

“. . . sir?”

“Go. Do it. We’ll talk later.”

Half an hour later, the once-rosy skies plunged into full dark, Burke met up with a man he would follow anywhere, even into death. “Coordinates twenty-nine-five north, thirty-four-eight-eight east. Tip of the Red Sea. Gulf of Aqaba.”

“Egypt?” Epps asked. “Are you _serious_?”

“Sir,” Graham said, having heard the approach of a man they were _not_ happy to see in the least.

Gag-all-the-way Galloway.

They dispersed, shaking their heads as if they had just had to figure out one small logistical error, Epps still following at Lennox’s side. “Even if we _could_ figure out a way to get Big Man out there someone, how’s this _kid_ supposed to bring him back to life?”

Lennox, knowing that with Sam, there was always more riding under the surface, spoke softly, his voice weary, convincing himself. “Look, I dunno. But we gotta _trust_ ’im.”

Any chance to bring Optimus back, _any_ chance that they could figure out how to fix everything that was going _wrong_ , what with the Fallen having revealed the presence of Transformers on Earth, the Decepticon reinforcements _literally_ raining down and destroying aircraft carriers, battleships . . . If somehow, all this could be made right again, Lennox would risk _everything_ on it.

.o.

“Elita.”

She turned towards the sound of her name, slowly booting up from what felt like a _bad_ binge. Which she knew she had done to herself to numb her pain. Optimus was gone, she knew it, but somehow . . . her Spark wasn’t alone. “Prowl?”

“Sshhh, now. Don’t move.” He smiled, features weary. “Twins are still in recharge. I have news.”

Looking to her left and right, she saw silver frames curled up around her, optics dark and systems whirring peacefully. Their Spark echoed between the frames, which was enough to give her some peace. “News? Of what?”

“Chromia and Bluestreak followed Sam to New York, where he met up with Simmons.”

“That rat bastard who tortured my Bee.”

“Yes. Him. Only he helped them _willingly_. I’ve my credits on the fact that he wants to do what he can to save his planet, and that he’s got enough info to see if there’s anything he could do. Bumblebee reported that they found someone who could read the glyphs that Sam’s been seeing—”

“Wait. Hold on. _Sam_ has been seeing _glyphs_?”

“AllSpark contamination is the current theory. Ratchet wants to get a look at the boy as soon as he can, but there’s been no time, and _officially_ , NEST has been ordered back to Diego Garcia. That’s currently irrelevant.”

“So what’s been done about what Sam’s seeing?” Elita whispered, curious.

“They found an ancient mech in Washington DC. Skyfire, I believe. Records called him lost, what, a million vorns ago.” Prowl leaned in. “And he was still _jump-capable_.”

“Primus, no.”

“Primus, _yes_ , actually. The glyphs formed a set of coordinates. Bumblebee sent me the visual of what Sam drew out.” He projected it into the air, the soft light falling over frames.

Elita knew the script of the Primes. The Matrix in her mate’s chest had given her that knowledge, though she never had advertised that she knew it. And when she read the words, she whispered, “Do _not_ show this to anyone else, Prowl. This is beyond us. Primus has his hand on this situation.”

“Acknowledged. But there is more news.”

Her optics drifted up to the current leader of the Autobots. “How can there be _more_?” The twins shifted at her tone, and she absently rubbed a soothing circle around one of their audios, a motion that was used to calm Sparklings and Younglings.

“A call was made to Lennox.” He replayed it for her. _“Lennox! I’m with the kid. The kid. You know, the one with the attitude, right? I need the truck. The truck. We’ve got a possible resurrection going on over here. You’re not gonna believe where we are. Code Tut, as in King Tutankhamen, back of a one-dollar bill. Coordinates for air-drop are twenny-nine-point-nine north, thirty-four-point-eight-eight east. Get it? Write it down. Crap! I gotta go!”_

Resurrection.

“The boy knows something.”

“What did those glyphs read, Elita?” Prowl whispered urgently. “What did they _say_?”

Her voice was distant, miles away and hoping that Sam could do what was being claimed he could. “‘Behold now the location of the Matrix of the Harvester. Behold now before you the Bearer of the Matrix that awaits him in the Tomb. Behold My Will. When dawn alights upon the dagger’s tip, three kings will reveal the doorway.’ He’s a _Prime_ , Prowl. Those glyphs mean that he’s been chosen as the bearer of one of the Lost Matrixes.”

She wasn’t shocked at Prowl crashing at the illogical twist of fate, but the noise of his frame tumbling to the ground certainly woke the Twins. They looked to her, then blinked sleepily back over at the former enforcer. “Uh . . . what just happened?” Sideswipe asked from behind her.

Elita sighed and laid back, looking up at the ceiling. She had been soothing Sunstreaker, then. “We have hope. I feel like I’ve bathed in unrefined low grade energon treats. I’ve wallowed enough, and I’m not going to be any good for anyone at this rate.”

“We’ve been assigned to you,” Sunstreaker murmured darkly.

“Then help me up, help me get clean and play bodyguards, I don’t care!” she replied, sending out a call to Jazz to come help his lover back out of the crash. “Optimus . . . Optimus would have my plating if I continued to mourn him when I _know_ that there’s so much more to be done!”

As Jazz arrived, he grinned and saluted the femme formally before kneeling beside his mate.

Prime’s Consort, after all, was also a military title and a responsibility to lead in the absence of her mate.

And leading was a function that Elita’s Spark was designed for, even if it ached.

.o.

Lennox hated Galloway with a passion that he never knew he possessed.

Okay, so he knew he possessed that level of hatred, but he didn’t know it could be directed at a human. At thirty-foot-tall robots trying to vaporize his precious ass, sure. But not against a fellow human being. So when he went to check with the pilots directly after takeoff, he said, “Look. I’m about to commit a heinous act that could land me the court-martial of the century.”

“Before you go any further, sir, remember that we think it’s a bad idea to be heading for Diego Garcia too, and that we’re about three minutes away from landing these birds somewhere that they can be better put to use.”

He grinned. “I’m still going to order you to follow my instructions. I’d rather take the fall. Go to these coordinates. Once we’re fifty miles out, I want you to make like the bird’s got mechanical failures.”

“Sir?”

“Galloway will _not_ be on the line of fire.”

“What are we looking at here, sir? Can’t you leave him on the plane?”

“No. He’ll order you to do something stupid, something that will get more people killed. If we drop him out of the range of fire, he’s resourceful, he’ll find a way to get word back out to home soil to get his ass out of there.”

“Understood. Anything else?”

Scribbling a message down, he said, “In three hours, I want you to get this message out to General Morshower.”

“He’s always been our best supporter.”

“He’s Prime’s personal friend on top of first line of military contact between Optimus and the President.”

“He’ll back us.”

“You bet your ass. Get this show on the road, tell the other pilots where we’re going. We need to be there _yesterday_.”

“Yessir.”

.o.

Petra.

Petra was a city that had changed hands often, according to history texts. Bumblebee looked up at the crevasse that they would have to pass through in order to safely access the ancient city. He had heard from archaeologists on his own world of all the abandoned cities that were left to decay under the surface of Cybertron. Sometimes, they had just been built upon, a new city overlapping it.

Unlike Kaon, where they just built upwards and outwards in a spiral, the very foundations of the City of Decepticons literally founded in the combat rings.

He had no words for the awe that rested upon his shoulders, within his very Spark, as he preceded the humans into the historical site. His doorwings, which were just glorified bits of kibble, had to be folded back and at odd angles as he slunk through the final pieces of passageway and into the city proper. Chirping once, softly, he looked down at Sam, whose hand reached up and rested against one leg.

“Wow.” But the boy couldn’t be diverted. He was driven, now. Looking up at his Guardian, he drew in a breath and released it. Everyone else helped him get this far.

Looking at his hands, he looked at his friends, then up at Bumblebee again. “Can I have a word with you, Bee?”

Nodding, he reached down and scooped his charge up, settling him upon a shoulder as they walked to just out of hearing distance. He moved to let Sam down onto a rock where they could be eye-to-optic. The boy’s voice was low, quiet, pained. “I’m so sorry, Bee.”

“You did everything you thought you needed to do, Sam.” The bright mech’s doorwings, however, drooped, showing his true emotional state.

“I’m talking about _everything_. Trying to leave you behind. Trying to not get involved with what seemed like someone else’s war.”

“Sam. Stop. I know.” Reaching up to tip the small chin up, Bumblebee dipped his head and let his optics smile as much as they could. “But you can make it up to me, at least.”

“ _How_ can I make anything up, Bee? I got Optimus killed!”

“You want to revive him. You wish to use the Matrix to revive him. That alone would make everything right with us.” Resting that same fingertip upon a narrow shoulder, the mech murmured, “Tell me what has been bothering you. Tell me _why_ you’ve been running, what you’re really afraid of. Please. Let me help _you_.”

“I’m . . . I-I’m afraid that I’m going legitimately crazy. I don’t think that my mind can _handle_ holding all the knowledge of the AllSpark. I keep seeing the same symbols, and now that we’re _here_ , I’m feeling a tug towards somewhere in these ruins. Towards some _thing_.” He ran his hands through his hair and a sigh gusted out of his lungs. “It’s like there’s this compass in my head pointing me towards it.”

“The Matrix, Sam. You’ve got the AllSpark sitting in your system, in your mind. The Matrix of the Fallen must be trying to connect with you, trying to lead you to it.”

“I don’t understand it, though.”

“We rarely understand why we do what we _must_.”

_My mechling speaks the truth, boy. Trust him._

Whirling, looking behind him, eyes darting over _nothingness_ , thin air, Sam tried to keep himself from hyperventilating. That was _Optimus’_ voice! It . . . it sounded like it came from behind his left shoulder, whispered in confidence beside his left ear.

Then the truth hit him, his eyes widening in complete shock before he ran a hand over them, closing his gaze and masking his shock. He shook his head. He _couldn’t_ admit to hearing ancient, or dead, Primes. Not until he _knew_ why they were talking to him.

“Voices?” Bee asked softly, levelly, his compassion soft, feather-gentle on stretched-thin nerves.

“Y-yeah. And the glyphs started up again. Moving . . . that way.” He pointed up, towards an outcropping of rock. Bee knew that direction from the maps, and nodded his assent of understanding that they were going in that direction next.

“Sam, please, tell me one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“You understand that because of my parentage, I was assigned as part of a practical internship as a Guard of the AllSpark. I guarded that relic while I was a Youngling, then off and on through the early days of the War.” He rested his fingertip over Sam’s heart, were life beat within the boy steadily. “My duty supposedly ended in Mission City with the destruction of the Cube . . . until yesterday. I guard you not just because you are simply my friend, Sam, but because you are also in possession of the AllSpark’s history. Do not make me leave your side again, unless it is absolutely necessary and another Autobot is within visual contact. I will not smother you, but I _do_ require you to understand my stance.”

Resting his hands over that large finger, Sam gazed fearlessly into electric blue optics, his voice soft, and firm. “I promise, Bee. I won’t make you do that again. I won’t _put_ you through that again.”

“Thank you. Now. Let’s get you to that Matrix.”

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** Okay, this is going up early because of one single review. So. To the reader who is getting married this weekend, CONGRATULATIONS! Here! Enjoy this! Now go enjoy your honeymoon without worrying about missing anything! You’re supposed to leave the world behind when you’re honeymooning with your soulmate! XD_

_To all you magnificent reviewers over the last couple of days, if I haven’t replied to your review, I will get to it before the next chapter goes up sometime in the next week and a half to two weeks._

_Also, the next two weeks starting today are literally filled to the brim with craziness. Writing, since I can’t and don’t do this for pay, takes a back seat while I deal with working my part-time job, going to school 20 hours a week Monday to Friday, and the weekends are filled with either rehearsals for King Richard’s Faire (renaissance faires for the win, but DAMN if it’s not exhausting to be one of the characters you see!), then I’m doing flowers for my cousin’s wedding and attending said wedding, then it’s school, work, faire, wash, rinse, repeat until October 23._

_Thank you for the wonderful reviews! And thank you for the watches, favorites, and all the hits!_

_Song is: “Good Luck” by Basement Jaxx from the 2004 Appleseed movie soundtrack. It fits, oddly enough. As before, look up those lyrics. Not everything is “good luck” in the song._


	40. Revenge Arc 12: Boum-Boum

It seemed appropriate that the place that Sam was lead to was called “The Monastery.” Awe filled Sam as he stared up at the building that was _crawling_ with glyphs in his gaze. He could see a few that looked familiar to the message he had written out for Jetfire, but there wasn’t much else that he could read. He was breathing, but the familiar breathless, reckless ache in his chest that had been there since he had heard those last words — _“Sam . . . run!”_ — those words that continue to echo in his mind . . .

The ache eased infinitesimally.

Determination and conviction filled him. As he walked closer, the glyphs moved faster around the mech-sized door, then abruptly vanished the moment he put his hand up to touch the weather-beaten entryway.

The glyphs gone, he hoisted himself up into the room, turning around and looking at the bare walls and their reliefs that were worn with age. He still felt that tug throbbing between his ribs. “It’s here somewhere, guys.”

“Oh yeah? Why? Because we’re trusting Grandpa Blackbird who doesn’t even know what planet he’s on?” Leo snarked, his gaze finding nothing.

“Uh, in his defense, this is the biggest doorway I’ve ever seen in my entire life,” Simmons, on the other hand, seemed more keen upon listening to Sam’s words.

The boy, meanwhile, had sat where the pulse felt the strongest, his head down as he waited for someone, _anyone_ to say something from the Great Beyond. So long as someone was talking, he was still getting leads, and each step was closer to bringing Optimus back. Ignoring the bantering, he whispered into a moment of breathless, silent rage that Simmons had slipped into, “This isn’t over.”

Panic soon kicked in again as the Idiot Twins brawled, and he was back in the mode of “dodge the frickin’ metal monster” while he tried calling for the guys to knock it off. Bumblebee, patience exhausted, grabbed one twin and dragged the other closer by the arm before blindingly-quick transferring his hold to then have both idiots by the scruff. Swinging them into each other to daze their processors with the impact, he tossed them out the door and didn’t even wait to see the second twin hit the ground before turning back around to look at Sam.

The boy was crouched close to the ruined motif on the wall, seeing cobwebs flowing outwards from what had to have been a sealed chamber. Simmons hopped up beside Sam, his fingers touching the crack before he hooked them around the edge and pulled on the crumbling, ancient stone. Sam was also digging at the wall, and when they had a hole big enough to see what was in there, he reached out with shaking fingers to tremble along acid-etched metal.

_Do what you need to; we have no more use for our former frames._

And for the first time, Sam responded to them with his entire heart. _Thank you._ “Bee! Shoot it.”

Chirping once to acknowledge this statement, then, saying a silent prayer for forgiveness for destroying the ancient frames in the face of necessity, primed his cannon and shot into the hole, wincing at the damage he was capable of creating against long-dead metal. Turning to see where the humans had moved to take cover from the initial blast, the wind, and the dust that swam through the air, he nodded to Sam, who reached up and patted his leg sympathetically.

Sam _knew_ what he had just asked Bumblebee to do, the scout realized. And he regretted it, too. They would share this burden for years to come.

But there was no time.

He held his hands out for the flashlights that they had brought with them from Simmons’ house, since the guy believed in preparing for the improbable, and shone them into the cavity. Sam heard the gasps from Mikaela, whose obsessive importance to him had paled in comparison to making things right. He supposed that was a sign that maybe, just maybe, he was maturing up a bit.

Sam felt the light brush of yellow fingers over his back before he moved in first, gaze aimed up at the fierce faces of Primes who no longer lived. Even though they were dead, their command, their peace, their authority and their devotion to protecting a planet they didn’t have responsibility for . . . all that was almost tangible to the boy.

And amid the whispers of his peers, he saw light glimmer off of fresh metal, not the pitted, worn metal of slowly-deteriorating Primes.

Gasping and kneeling down, he heard himself whisper, “Matrix.”

He could _feel_ the tension radiating off of Bumblebee, twenty feet behind him.

Licking his lips, the boy reached down and carefully began to lift the artifact. As a pure blue light flickered in its heart, he felt something reach out and run along his arms, to his head and his chest, touching, feeling, sensing . . . 

And just as his hope finally rose, it crumbled.

Sand. Glassy, metallic sand fell through his fingers.

“Thousands of years, turned to dust,” Simmons whispered in shock.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to end,” Sam replied, hands picking up the sand.

Bumblebee, however, turned towards the large doorway and waited, optics watchful but his true gaze inwards. Perhaps the Primes were wrong. Maybe the Matrix was incompatible with humans. But if the AllSpark wasn’t incompatible, and was, in fact, able to transfer, to _transform_ , the data from a metal object that nobody understood to a rather organic being who, granted, nobody understood, then perhaps . . .

Perhaps, perhaps, _perhaps_!

Just as Bumblebee received the transmission stating that NEST was in position and ready to drop, Simmons came running out of the tomb, out the door, and began to scale one of the rocks around The Monastery. Turning, Bumblebee looked in to see Leo following Simmons, and Mikaela looking at Sam with a deadened, hopeless and straight-honest expression upon her face. Resting one hand upon the hole he created, Bee leaned in closer to hear her words.

“You can’t bring him back, Sam, there’s nothing left.”

“Look!” he yelled, getting up and more than that, _fed_ up with his girlfriend. He heard whispers that negated what she said, stating that there _still_ was hope. “Look around you! We couldn’t have just gone through everything we went through for no reason to have it end like this. There is a _reason_ that we are here. The voices and the symbols in my head led us here for a reason, for a purpose.” He sat against one of the dead Primes to pull off his shoe and his sock, shoving his foot back into the shoe half-carelessly. “Everyone’s after me because of what I know. And what I know, is that _this is gonna work_.”

“How do you _know_ that it’s gonna work?” the girl whispered to the boy.

“Because I _believe_ in it.” He spoke with utter conviction, without hesitation, and, having gathered all of the almost-magnetic dust into his sock, turned to go, meeting Bumblebee’s gaze fearlessly. “Ready to get to that DZ, big guy?”

Chirping firmly and nodding, Bumblebee helped Sam and Mikaela out of the tomb and followed them out. He was proud of how Sam was doing, and he was proud of the man that he was shaping up to being. Optics grinning, he knew that he would follow the boy anywhere. This was the makings of a leader like the kind that included Optimus. With luck, perhaps even Sam could live their lifespan. Maybe one day.

.o.

He hadn’t gone to the Pit. That much was certain. The warmth and the peace that rolled through his Spark from the moment when his vision blacked out with the hissing of static to the sudden brightness of infinity stretching out along all sides . . . there was no chance that he was in the Pit.

“Well, Youngling, that took skill for everything to fall apart quite so spectacularly.”

Blinking up at the tall, blue mech before him, Optimus chuckled, having sat down moments before to process that he was, in fact, on the other side of the AllSpark. Heaven, in human vernacular. The place was one and the same, and the requirements to achieve entry were, as with all cultures, strict and yet with a certain unfailing grace. “Well. Falimus.”

“Your direct predecessor. And that’s a rather loud paint-scheme, don’t you think?”

Snorting and standing, Optimus muttered, “I like it and so does Elita. There’s nothing else to say about it when your mate states that if one was to change a paint job, there would be serious repercussions and there wouldn’t be any lovemaking for as long as the paint was changed.” He felt the terror of the boy, and that worried him. He shouldn’t _feel_ the emotions of the living, least of all the emotions of a human. “I have a pressing problem.”

“Here but moments, and you continue to cause problems?” Falimus chuckled. It was clear to see that the Matrix of Leadership he had possessed and passed on to Optimus enjoyed those whose sense of humor may be buried, but still intact.

“Oh, hush,” he replied, explaining what he continued to feel, walking with the mech he had never known, but whom he had always _felt_ in the background of his Matrix from his point of origin. “How is this possible?”

Falimus gave it some thought before answering, “I would assume that it is because there is the great chance for you to return. There is a way for you to be re-ignited.”

“But why this . . . proto-Bond with the boy?”

“The Elder Primes know of such things. They sent me to find you as you are my successor and I understand you the best. They will give you the information when they feel it time. Primus is continually amused by their meddling in mortal affairs.” Kind old optics smiled at the relatively-young Prime, who snorted.

The human noise coming from his Cybertronian vocal processors was enough to cause the once-Prime to throw his head back and bray a laugh.

“I’m glad to be of so much amusement. Aren’t we wasting time?”

“Time isn’t linear, Optimus Prime. Not here. It flows as it needs to. It passes when it needs to. Primus has it all in hand.”

Without warning, they were encircled by the Elder Primes, the twelve that had bound and buried their fallen brother. “Optimus. Welcome home.”

Bowing his head, looking up at the voice, he asked, “How is the boy?”

“Doing well, despite the fact that he’s overwhelmed.” Holding a hand up, the Prime showed a visual of Samuel Witwicky in real-time as how the living world experienced it, showing the young boy talking with Mikaela, leaning against Bumblebee’s prow.

How odd that he could feel the emotions of the boy, but not the emotions of his mate and child. He repeated this observation, and the Primes smiled. “He has the potential to be a Prime, which you have doubtless surmised. You know what echoes within his mind, the knowledge that was lost to your time.”

Wincing, Optimus began to apologize for the loss of knowledge, only to have one massive, even to him, hand rest upon his shoulder. “It was the decisions of generations before yours, because much of the technology we possessed was, much to our chagrin, best used for warfare and destruction of worlds.”

“Destruction of _what_?” Optimus bellowed, staring in shock at his ancestors.

“There is one such machine in modern day Egypt.”

Turning to stare at the new Prime who spoke, the image of Sam fading into nothingness, the red and blue mech whispered, “How is it activated?”

“By the very item that has laid claim to the boy. If he is capable of becoming the great leader that is needed, if the Matrix finds him to be suitable, he will be your brother-in-Spark, the Bond similar to and yet a bit more than a typical brother Bond.”

“But he is _human_!” came Optimus’ protest. “ _How_ is this possible?!”

“Because our Primus and their singular God are one and the same. We were designed for two separate purposes, but with one definite goal, one defining reason: to aid one another with equality.” It was impossible to tell which Prime spoke these words, and Optimus stood beside Falimus, fists creaking and clenched with stress as the speaker continued. “You are still the bearer of a Matrix and you will need to know many things before you return to the mortal side of life. This is what the boy will encounter when the Matrix aligns with his soul . . .”

.o.

“Sam! No, Sam!” Optimus turned, roaring and slamming his fist into a rock formation, causing the spectral minerals to crumble. He shook, turned away from the emotionally-detached Primes as they watched the human medics try to bring life back to the boy. “No . . .” His word slipped into the soft keen of a leader who couldn’t cry in public.

“Why do you weep?” a voice asked him.

It took him a few moments to compile his answer, sorting through his emotions as he felt them. “He has . . . had . . . so much to live for. His bravery, even if he wasn’t aware of everything he _should_ be afraid of . . . it gave me hope. He doesn’t _deserve_ this death!”

“It’s a glorious death, sacrifice to try to save the one who believed in his worth and the one whose people can end this battle and keep the Earth safe.”

“It is _not_ a glorious death!” Optimus barked, snarling and turning to look at the speaker. “It’s a _senseless_ one! The boy—”

His processor caught up with his mouth.

“The boy,” Primus said with a smile at his Prime’s ferocity, “deserves his life. The Elder Primes will address him when he comes before us.” He turned, then smiled over his shoulder at Optimus’ breathless call. “Mm?”

“Why did you let Jazz come back?”

“Why did you need him back? Orion, there is much that you won’t understand if I try to tell you about why I released Jazz to return to life. You still think in mortal fashions, and will do so until you are ready to rejoin me here.” Turning to completely face His creation, Primus rested hands upon broad, strong shoulders. “You are a special soul to Me, Optimus. Your devotion to Me, your devotion to those who choose to follow you and to protecting My other creations . . . All those are reasons that you can understand for why I entrusted Jazz to return to you and to his soulmate.”

Samuel James Witwicky, Prime.

_Sam!_

Both looked towards the narrow entrance into the realm of those who have lived and passed on, feeling the name and title settle upon them as lightly and as significantly as a butterfly. The Elder Primes began walking stately towards the entrance. Optimus knew his time up here was running out. “I have a few questions . . .”

“Of course.”

“Is Sentinel still alive?”

Primus’ gaze softened into disappointed agony. “Yes.”

“What of Terratron?”

“Terratron’s Spark is old, older than Sentinel’s, but it is still strong. He knows how to keep it strong, but he will need assistance soon.”

“Soon? How soon?” The leader was close to panicking. As much as he and Sentinel had butted heads while leading through the early days of the war, they were still mentor and student. Terratron, however, was twice the teacher that Sentinel had been to Optimus.

“Within two hundred Earth years.”

Not terribly soon, then. They had time, then.

“What do we have to do?”

“Ask the boy.”

The white flashed around them. Samuel returned to his mortal body.

Optimus began to feel a tug upon his Spark. “Am I right to try to say on Earth, to try to protect the humans and to guide them?”

“Yes, brave Spark, you are.” Reaching one hand down to press over Optimus’ Spark, Primus smiled and both felt the tug start to strain at the edges of awareness. “They do not need you as a leader, but as a mentor, as a guide, a living example of a civilization that fell apart as easily as their own world may fall apart. Both peoples are my children, both have the freedom and curse of free will. Both have much to learn from one another.”

And then with a shock, a jolt and waves of rolling dizziness, Optimus felt gravity again.

.o.

“I don’t care _who_ ordered it, I _will_ have mate’s body returned to me for the proper rites!” Elita snarled into the phone line.

The calm man on the other line, who was generously giving his time to the femme, replied, “I understand that, but right now, it’s in a classified location and there are live rounds currently going over it.”

“I’m aware of the boy’s involvement—”

“Then perhaps you are aware of a creature called the Fallen?” At her silence, Morshower sighed, his voice softening. “Ma’am, I want nothing more than this nightmare to be over and done with. Trust me. The last thing I wanted to deal with is what has been happening in the last forty-eight hours. Now the boy is on to something, and, from what intel I’ve received prior to the communication blackout going on over there, there’s a possibility that the situation can be . . . adjusted.”

“Adjusted? _How can you adjust death_?!” she all but shrieked, pacing in front of the natural stone building that had housed Jazz and Prowl on their Bonding night, and recently, her own self while she grieved.

“Ma’am, I can’t say specifics over an open communications line. We’re close to certain that one of our satellites has been hacked. That is all I can tell you,” he replied calmly, but with a great deal of sympathy in his voice. “I want to brief you on the full situation, but with the possibility of one of theirs up in the sky, I’d rather not give _them_ any more intel than they already have.”

Cussing under her breath, she muttered, “Very well. When is the return ETA?”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I’m aware of it.”

“Good.” And she cut the line, snarling under her breath for a moment. Sighing, turning back towards the main ranch, she loped back to where Prowl and Jazz were waiting at a respectful distance from her. “Any news from Ratchet?”

“He’s pissed. Been pissed. Will continue to be pissed until we get everyone home.” Jazz’s optics caught the subconscious press of Elita’s hand over her Spark, trying to ease the pain. “You all right?”

“Will be. Maybe. I hope you know that playing the ‘clueless wife’ card has scarred my Spark for eternity. _Puah._ As if _I_ would ever _not_ know about the entire circumstances of what is going around my mate, alive or dead. But I did get the answers I was looking for. Their communications are hacked, everyone’s in Egypt, and I’m missing out on one _hell_ of a battle.” Shoving hands upon hips, Elita looked towards the main house, and the Sparklings within. Her voice softened. “The boy will bring my mate back with him.”

“Hearin’ voices?” Jazz teased.

“No, I—”

_Pulse._

She rested her hand over her Spark chamber, optics flickering in shock.

_Pulse._

“Elita?” Prowl demanded.

_Pulse-thrum._

She reached out with her free hand for support, mouth open but no words coming out.

_Pulse-thrum-thrum-thrum-pulse—_

“Primus . . .”

“Elita, what’s wrong?!” Jazz demanded, grabbing her hand and supporting her as she shut her optics down and keened softly.

_~Raauugghhhh!! Son of the Pit! Dammit! Pit-spawned, glitch-ridden, two-bit-processored, single-cylinder **fragger** , this hurts! Pit-slagged gyros won’t fragging boot up—!~_

_~Optimus . . . ?~_

_~Ariel! Primus took care of the reconnection of our Bond. Good! Yes, love. Alive. I wasn’t in this much pain when I was dead. The boy . . .~_

_~A Prime.~_ She was far too shocked to do anything but focus upon his voice across their Bond, almost smothering him in her _need_ to feel his presence intertwined with her own.

_~Yes. I will mentor him. Reassure the others.~_

_~I love you with everything I am. I would have given my Spark to keep you safe, alive.~_

_~I wouldn’t sacrifice you for any cause, my love. You’re more needed by the children and the civilians. Go. Reassure Cobalt and my officers over there. And come see me. Ratchet will need your hands to repair some of my damage. I have to go kill someone now.~_ With that, he slid a gentle, thin block between them so that he could focus on his battle.

Elita smiled and lifted her head and her optics to smile at the worried Bondmates before her. And she didn’t have to say a single word.

.o.

_**Author’s Note:** This took some finagling to get to where I wanted it to be. I’m sorry for not replying to a LOT of reviews, but this has been the week from the Pit. I won’t be getting to them, but if you have a question that I didn’t answer that you were really looking to hear the answer to, please either repeat it in a new review, or PM it to me. There’s been a lot of changes happening this week. I’m still going to be involved in the renaissance faire, but this time around, because of drama and unnecessary politics, I’ll be helping sell items in a booth. That, and there’s a wedding in the family this weekend, and I’m doing the flowers for the wedding. So there’s gonna be a lot of craziness. _

_This is the end of the Revenge Arc. Sorry if you find it sudden, but inspiration said, “Guess what? Time for clean-up.” To date, this is the longest story arc that I’ve worked on by far. Twelve chapters to it! And it’s up sooner than I had anticipated._

_In other news, I’m preparing to publish my first original piece of fiction. It’s a short story, and will be available through Barnes and Noble, and maybe through Amazon. I have to talk to a few people before I get the manuscript ready for publication, not to mention that I have to get the cover art taken care of as well. Once I’m closer to a release date, I’ll give everyone updated information._

_Song is: “Boum-Boum” by Enigma. “My heart goes boum-boum-boum, every time I think of you . . .” It’s an upbeat song that really fits the whole “getting to the end of this adventure” emotion._


End file.
